


A Piece of Rough

by Schwoozie



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Angst, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Depression, Developing Relationship, Doggy Style, F/M, From Sex to Love, Romance, Rough Sex, Shotgunning, Sister-Sister Relationship, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 59,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Screwing a stranger in the bathroom of a biker bar was never part of the plan—but Beth's rolling with it. Every good girl needs her piece of rough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Kind of Girl

**Author's Note:**

> A gajillion thanks to milkshakemicrowave as always for her pitch-perfect edits and amazing support.
> 
> 100% of what I know about bike gangs comes from Sons of Anarchy. You've been warned.
> 
> Warnings for discussion of a suicide attempt and depression.

“You know that dad's going to kill us.”

“Not if he doesn't find out,” Maggie says, slightly slurred as she pouts her lips, leaning over the steering wheel so she can perfect her lipstick in the visor mirror.

Hershel would fall over backwards if he saw Maggie in this getup—high-waisted black shorts covering little more than a leotard would, with a sheer cotton blouse undone nearly to her navel. Beth herself didn't even bother changing out of her jeans and sweater—she sits slouched in her seat, eyeing the bar they're parked outside with skepticism.

“Why couldn't you just leave me at home?”

Maggie glances at her. “You're not supposed to be left alone. You know that.”

Beth exhales roughly. “And taking me somewhere called The Prison Yard is considered the healthier option?”

“Doctor's orders, Beth.” Maggie looks at Beth's still petulant face and sighs. “Com'mon, Bethy—Glenn never has time when Daddy's away.”

“Ya know, you could always just tell Dad you're seeing him.”

“After what happened with Tommy? No way.” Despite her annoyance, Beth flinches a little in sympathy, remembering Maggie's first boyfriend. Watching the boy who'd just taken your virginity get chased out of a hayloft by an old vet with a rifle tends to be the kind of experience that stays with you.

“Please, Beth,” Maggie pleads. “It'll just be for a little while. Then we can go home and watch as many James Mason movies as you want.”

Beth sighs. “Fine, but you owe me for this.”

Maggie lunges across the divide to hug Beth and plant a sticky lipstick kiss against her cheek. “Gas money for a month, I promise,” Maggie says as she plunks back in her seat, throwing the door open. Beth rolls her eyes, scrubs at the mark, and follows.

Beth feels like she's stepping into another world as the bar's faux-saloon doors swing open before her. Thanks to the anti-smoking laws, there isn't a cigarette in sight; but the place feels like it should be perpetually filled with smoke. Beer, at least, sits heavy on the air, and every surface has a carefully casual layer of grime—enough to look authentic, but not to turn anyone off. The place is full, but not packed, and a comforting buzz of conversation fills the room.

Beth eyes a group done up in leather and grease, congregated in a large corner booth. One of the older ones says something that must be uproarious, for they all erupt into laughter, overpowering the tinny jukebox. Only a man at the edge of the group, with hound-dog hair and an angel wing vest, seems unmoved. He turns from his fellows and sits back a little, eyes scanning the newcomers at the door. His gaze catches on Beth's for a moment, and she suppresses a shiver as she quickly looks away.

“Glenn invited you to a biker bar?” Beth asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Glenn's their mechanic, he gets a discount,” Maggie says distractedly, scanning the restaurant. Her eye catches on someone and a stunning smile spreads across her face.

Beth trails behind as Maggie throws herself into the arms of a boy in a baseball cap, pulling back to kiss him deeply. Beth hovers on their periphery, growing more and more annoyed as they suck face and ignore her presence. She shoots a glance at the bikers and finds Angel Wings watching her. He looks away quickly, but she still feels that rush of warmth surge through her body, a strange thrill to be under his gaze. She can’t fully identify the feeling—it’s something like what she feels when Jimmy’s hands are on her, but with an edge of fear that makes it even more electrifying. She turns away, troubled.

“Beth, this is Glenn,” Maggie says, still breathless from the kiss. “Glenn, my sister, Beth.”

She watches a torrent of sympathy spread across his face, and she wants to punch him.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, sticking his hand out. She takes it, noticing the way his eyes go to her wrist, feels her throat seize.

“You too,” she mutters.

“Maggie told me you weren't feeling well—“

“Well, well, well, what have we here; Chinaman's finally gotten himself a kitty sandwich.”

Glenn's face slides into a scowl as the older biker saunters up and throws an arm around his shoulders. His lascivious eyes slide over Beth's body and she can breathe again.

“Come on, Merle—“

“You're at least gonna introduce me to these,” his eyes glide up Maggie's bare legs, “ _fine_ ladies, aren't ya?”

Glenn shoots an apologetic glance to Maggie before saying, “Maggie and her sister Beth. This is Merle. I fix his bike.”

“Glad to meet you,” Maggie says, sounding anything but.

“I'm guessin' you're the girl, gots our boy here all mooney-eyed.” He turns to Beth. “You got a man, l'il darlin'? Lemme buy you a drink and we can get to know each other.”

Maggie looks about ready to burst, but Beth herself feels strangely calm.

“Thanks for the offer, but I'm good for now,” Beth says quickly, before Maggie can speak her mind.

“Aww, don't be like that, chickadee. Gotta give a guy a chance—“

“Merle.” A hand appears around Merle's bicep. Angel Wings tugs at him, eyes down. “Sit down, man. Martinez is bitchin' about his prospect again.”

“I got more important things to attend to, little brother. 'Less you wanna take a stab—“

“I'll let you know when I want that drink, Merle,” Beth interrupts, smiling her sweetest smile. Angel Wings glances at her, then back down, tugging again at the older man's arm.

Merle raises his hands in surrender. “A'right, a'right, I get the message. You enjoy this fine establishment, girls.” With a final leer, he shakes off Angel Wings’s hand and leads the way back to their booth.

“Sorry about that,” Glenn says, sounding mortified. “Merle's a dick, but he's harmless.”

“What were you doing encouraging him, Beth?” Maggie asks, rounding on her sister.

“All he wanted was to get you riled up. Not everything's a fight, Maggie.” She looks toward the bikers' booth. Merle is back at the head of the table, holding court, but Angel Wings stands a little away, leaning on the coat rack, impressive arms crossed over his chest. “Besides, maybe I want that drink.”

She can practically hear Maggie rolling her eyes. “Alright, wild child. These your friends Glenn?”

Beth suffers through another round of introductions; thankfully, none of them give her the same pitying looks that Glenn did, and she's allowed to sit on the edge of the booth, chewing her fingernails as they get to know each other. They're all Maggie's kind of people anyway—college-bound and confident, polished and prepared to take on the world. Beth can't help but feel intimidated. She knows she's smart, has always done well in school—but there's an air around some people, a pinnacle she just can't reach. So she stays quiet. She watches as a girl named Amy looks sadly at the arm Glenn has thrown around Maggie's shoulders, as another girl named Tara looks sadly at Amy looking at Glenn. She sees the stars in Glenn's eyes when he looks at her sister, and the contentment in Maggie's when she looks at him. Of that, at least, Beth is thankful.

“Your name's Beth, right?”

Beth's head jerks up in surprise. The boy next to her—cute, but not distractingly so—has turned away from the conversation to focus on her.

“Yeah—and sorry, what's yours?”

He offers his hand in what she is sure is the second time. His grip is dry and firm. “Zach. Like Braff, not Ryder.”

“O...k.”

“The spelling. A 'ch', not 'ck'.”

“Ah.”

The silence stretches between them for a few long moments. Beth glances at her hand and notes that her thumbnail has started bleeding.

“Y'know, there's that Arctic Monkey's concert coming up—“

“I think I'm gonna get some air at the bar,” Beth says, loud enough that she hopes Maggie hears. She doesn't wait to find out; just shoots Zach an apologetic glance before hightailing it out of there.

Beth orders a ginger ale and sighs heavily, resting her face in her hands for a moment, fighting the sudden sting of tears. It's ridiculous to feel this upset. Her life is fine. _She_ is fine. But in this place that tastes like leather and sweat, she feels all the more acutely the press of past dreams; of an adolescence spent watching a much older sister blossom and grow; of being stuck on a boring farm in a boring town, filled with boring boys with nothing but hayseed in their heads and plows in their hands. There's nothing wrong with Beth's little life, nothing she can see; but ever since she can remember she's felt poised at the edge of a great darkness, a sickness beyond ranch houses and cornfields. It's in her nature to be introspective, to find all within that is lacking; and the emptiness she's felt since her mother's death has spread within her to the depths of that chasm. The line beneath her jangling bracelets is evidence of that.

She's still blinking back tears when she becomes aware of another body settling at the bar, a few stools away from her. A gruff voice asks for a Budweiser, and she peeks between her fingers to see the man with the angel wing vest, pretending not to notice her too.

With a loud sniff Beth sits up straight, crossing her arms on the bar. “You ain't gonna buy me a drink?” she asks, feeling brazen.

“What do I look like, Daddy Warbucks?” he grumbles, mirroring her posture.

She shrugs. “Just figured that's what guys do at bars,” she says. “Harass women with free drinks and lowered expectations.”

He snorts, but tries to hide it in a cough. “Don't know much about bars, do you?”

Beth shrugs. “Not especially.” The barkeep—a dumpy older man with a face like a chicken's—drops off her drink. She thanks him and promptly sucks the straw into her mouth.

“You drink beer with a straw?” Angel Wings asks incredulously.

Beth rolls her eyes, sitting up and wiping at a spilled drop from her lip. “It's ginger ale, smart aleck.”

“How's I supposed to know?”

“Do I look legal?”

The man scowls, picking at a leather band tied around his wrist. Beth decides to take his silence as a compliment.

“Most people think I'm about twelve,” she says, part of her wondering why she's gotten so chatty all of a sudden, when a minute ago all she wanted was to crawl in a hole and never come out. She supposes it's something pleasing in his profile; maybe the fact that after tonight she'll likely never see him again; but maybe a little bit because when he looks at her she feels something dangerous lick its way up the underside of her skin. “How old d'you think I am?” she asks.

“Not old enough to be sassin' me,” he grumbles, accepting his beer with a grunt and downing half of it in one gulp.

“Why aren't you sitting with your friends?” Beth asks.

“Why ain't you sittin' with yours?”

“They're my sister's friends, not mine,” Beth says, stirring her drink with the straw. “I'd never've come here if she hadn't dragged me.”

“What, place like this too good for you, princess?”

Beth looks at him, startled. “No! Why would I go to a bar if I can't drink?”

He looks her head on for the first time in their conversation. “Even teenagers want to get laid.”

He seems to instantly regret saying it, because a scowl twists his face and he looks back down at his hands. Beth remains staring at him, blinking owlishly, trying to calm the pounding in her chest.

“And what about you?”

Her heart rings loudly in her ears.

He looks up at her slowly, with a gaze like a hunting dog. “What about me?”

“You here to get laid?”

The man colors heavily, his knuckles gone white from his grip on the beer bottle. He glares at her and speaks in a low, rumbling rasp, “Don’t go asking things you know nothing about, girl.”

The shiver his anger sends between Beth’s thighs scares her a little; it's nothing like what she'd felt in her fumblings with Jimmy, not even when she brings herself off with her own hands. There's something wild about it, untamed. She squeezes her legs together and retreats, taking a gulp of her drink. “Sorry I asked,” she mutters past her red cheeks.

They sit together in silence for several long moments, listening to the hum of the restaurant and the clank of bottles. When she looks up Angel Wings is studying her again, but much more openly; she's the first to glance away when their eyes meet.

When she looks back, he's looking at her wrist.

She realizes too late that her bracelets have ridden up, revealing the scar to his searching eyes. She quickly pulls them down her arm, but it's too late. His eyes flick to her eyes and back. She feels sick.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she mutters, barely audible, as she drops from her stool and races for the back.

The lavatory is about par for the course, as far as this place goes; covered floor to ceiling in band stickers and graffiti, the toilet squashed into an alcove to the left of the door and an unvarnished sink on the opposite wall, forming an aborted L-shape. The space is barely large enough for the door to swing open. She locks the door and leans heavily on the sink. The mirror is so grimy she has to wipe it down with a wad of toilet paper to see herself; then she wishes she still couldn't.

“What are you doing here Beth?” she whispers to herself, searching her features in the clouded mirror. She does not mean in the bathroom, or this bar—even the shamelessly flirty conversation she just had with a complete stranger. Beth is the good girl, the baby—the porcelain doll to Maggie’s tomboy toughness, the angel with clipped wings. Beth is all of that—but none of it. She looks at herself in this anonymous mirror and doesn't recognize the girl looking back.

In her dreams of herself are women like this: Tall as the sky in stilettos and stacked hair, shimmying in the perfect fit of clothes they wear like skin. She never becomes one of these women; but she watches them; watches them bend backwards across trashcans and car hoods, bent at the mercy of the dark men at their backs, limp and strained but with fire in their eyes as their mercy puts the man at his. Beth's had her encounters, and they've been nice; nothing like what Maggie gets up to, in haylofts and pickup trucks—but she's been taken care of, caressed with the sweetness of spun sugar.

It eats her up, to think of being eaten up; of a coupling dripping with syrup.

She waits until she hears the hum of male voices from beyond the door receding, and then the growl of half a dozen bikes roaring into the distance, before emerging. She hopes Maggie hasn't noticed how long she's been gone— _probably hasn't even noticed I left,_ she thinks; _some doctor's orders_ —and wonders what she would do if Beth proclaimed she was walking home, this moment; that she can't stand the lull of this place anymore, the strings it pulls inside her, the breezes that make her sallow heart tremble and burn—

She's so lost in her thoughts she doesn't notice he's there until she smacks headlong into his chest.

“Hey there,” he says, hands going to her shoulders to steady her. She shakes him off jerkily, alarmed by the warmth of his palms through her sweater. “Y'alright?”

“Fine,” she mutters, avoiding his eyes, “I'm gonna get going—“

“Hey, hold up,” he says, looping a hand around her bicep just like he did with his brother. Beth prepares for a rush of trepidation—a good farm girl stuck in a dim hallway with a ruffian, it might as well be on _Dateline_ already—but when he pulls his hand away all she feels is the tingle in her shoulder from where he touched her.

“What?” she says, looking up. She's shocked at what she finds—open eyes that seem to reach all the way down to his heart, full of contrition.

“Listen,” he mumbles, a sound deep in his chest, “I didn't mean to stare or nothin'. You just—“

“What, I don't seem the type?” she asks bitterly.

“No, I—I know something 'bout it, 's all.”

Beth looks up at him.

“My momma, she didn't—she didn’t cut herself up or nothin', but she was like that.”

“Like what?” Beth whispers.

He shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Hurtin'.”

Beth looks down at the flannel of his shirt, much closer than she expected it to be. “What happened to her?”

He snorts. “Burnt up the whole house, with her inside. Everything gone. But... she'd been gone a long time.”

Beth feels tears pricking her eyes again. The man shifts on his feet, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

“I'm sorry that happened,” Beth says quietly.

“You too,” he mumbles. “Whatever it was.”

They stand there observing each other for several moments—Beth's eyes up and open, his chin tucked down into his neck. Her eyes wander from his fluttering eyelashes to his thin lips, and she realizes she would very much like to kiss him.

So she does.

For several seconds they freeze in a tableau—Beth raised up on the tips of her toes, hands gripping the edges of his vest, leaning into him on knuckles and lips. His scruff is startlingly rough on her skin, after so many years of smooth cheeks and peach fuzz. His lips are sun chapped and motionless as she works her mouth over him, slowly, then more desperately, and then finally a light lingering brush as she looks up at him, hands beginning to shake.

He blinks down at her in a way that makes her question the state of his higher brain function. His hands hang limply at his sides.

Beth goes back down onto her feet, still holding his vest. She bites her bottom lip, watching his eyes flick there and back to her eyes, blown open with shock.

“Uh...”

“What you do that for?”

Beth blushes down to her toes. “Just... I wanted to.”

“Why?”

Her brow furrows. “Why... you're hot.” She giggles a little at how absolutely terrified he looks. He doesn't move out of her grasp though.

The longer she looks at him, gaze flickering between his eyes, the more relaxed he seems to become; a little tension winds out of his spine as he slouches into her, rolling her knuckles against his chest.

“How old you say you were again,” he murmurs, looking down at her with hooded eyes.

“Eighteen.”

“I don't gotta card you, do I?”

She giggles again, smoothing her hands up his chest, under the vest, feeling the cool slide of his flannel. “I'm an honest girl.”

“Yeah?” He glances out towards the restaurant proper, then steps forward, backing her up into the shadows until she's pressed against the wall by the bathroom door. “You a good one?”

“I try to be.” She feels the lightest pressure on her hips as he settles his fingers against her, brushing them against the top of her jeans and into the gap beneath her sweater; she shivers, heart pumping, victorious, _alive_.

“Ain't doing a very good job.” He slides his fingers back and forth just beneath her sweater, going farther towards her back with each pass; she bends her fingers, scratching a little at his shirt. His neck arches as he leans into her, pressing her knuckles back into her own chest and she breathes in deeply as his chest expands, meeting him in the middle. Her head falls back against the wall, and she looks at him, lips parted. He doesn't even try to look away this time.

“You got a problem with that?”

“Nah,” he murmurs, and kisses her.

She moans the moment his lips touch hers, because they're burning—spread wide and dangerous as he engulfs her mouth, breathing her in, scratching her chin with the needles of his whiskers and jesus, it's only just begun and she's never been kissed like this before—like she's a woman and he's a man and he takes no qualms in sinking his hands into her jeans pockets and gripping her ass, dragging her forward even as he flattens her against the wall. She whines high in her throat and digs her fingers into his chest, then slides them onto his shoulders under his vest so she can lever herself up and press harder against his mouth. She opens hers easily, letting him in.

He isn't tentative, isn't shy in the way he slides his tongue against hers, tasting of smoke and burrito and something that must be beer, because nothing but alcohol could explain the way every nerve ending in her body has gone alight, pulsing in time with the heart beneath his broad chest. A groan rises from deep in his gut as she curls her tongue past his, tasting his enamel, making him sing, shifting her hips to slot against—

A dish crashes in the kitchen and he rips his lips away to pant harshly against her mouth. Beth clenches instinctively at his shoulders, but he doesn't seem to want to go anywhere; just stands there against her, pressing her into the wall, separated only by shadows and jukebox from a crowded bar—from her _sister_ , the same sister who nearly made Jimmy wet his pants when she caught them behind the school dumpsters, who's probably right now wondering where her suicidal little sister is—

But with this stranger's weight pressing her into the wall and his hot breath winding rivers of fire beneath her cheek bones, Beth just can't bring herself to care.

“We're stoppin'?” she asks, breathing hard, pressing back so his knuckles grind against the wall.

He growls and drags her forward again. She has to bite her lip to suppress her whimper.

“What are we doing here, girl?”

She looks at him with flint in her eyes. “You tell me.”

“I'm thinking you ain’t fully in your right mind right now.”

Beth’s face flushes with anger. She yanks hard on his vest. “That’s _bullshit_ ,” she hisses in a voice she didn’t know she could produce. He seems just as taken aback as she is. “You don’t wanna continue, that’s fine, but don’t project your issues onto me.” She rises on her tiptoes, gets right in his face. “I’m not _damaged_ , I’m not weak, and I’m sure as hell not some dead girl can’t make up her mind.” She pulls one hand from beneath his vest and curls it around the back of his neck. She feels the muscles there tighten, his shoulders roll as she scratches lightly at the damp hairs above his spine. “I wanna do this.”

His eyes flicker between hers, so close. “Wanna what?”

“I want to _fuck_ ,” she breathes, soft as sugar and sweet as sin, and her sudden bravery would scare her if he didn’t respond so: Cheeks flaring red and hands flexing on her ass, dragging her forward so he can rub the bulge in his pants once up and down her hip. Her eyes flutter at this display of his utter maleness, the raw need in his eyes. When she can focus her eyes again he looks troubled.

“What?” she asks.

“You have done this before, right?”

“Of course I have!” Beth straightens up, tries to look older. “Have you?”

“Don’t sass me,” he growls.

“It was a legitimate question,” she grumbles.

“You listen,” he says, low in his throat. He presses closer against her, using every inch of his extra height to loom over her. “You may’ve had sex, but you ain’t never been fucked. Not like this.”

“How do you know?”

“I know girls like you.”

“And what kinda girl am I?”

“The kinda girl people take care of.” He swallows. “You want me to be your piece of rough, I can be it.” He moves a hand from her ass to hold the outside of her thigh, gripping her harder than she thought hands could grip; she can feel the bruises rising and it thrills her. “But you gotta know, I ain’t no damn farmer boy. You understand that?”

“I do,” Beth breathes.

He searches her face; seems to like what he finds. “Com'mon then.” Glancing back towards the restaurant, he reaches for the bathroom door, yanking it open. He jerks his head, and Beth slides inside, heart pounding, waiting for him.

He doesn't waste time slipping in after her, closing and locking the door with a deafening click, turning to face her. He looks much larger in this confined space; his shoulders nearly span the width of the walls, and even at his average height he's only a head from the ceiling. The single lightbulb flickers as he looks down at her, eyes dark and perusing, sliding up and down her body like a pair of hands.

He sees her hesitate. He nods at her feet. “Take your shoes off.” She looks at the filthy floor, ready to object. “Socks on.”

Beth goes to one knee to undo her converse, struggling to hide the excited trembling in her hands. She glances up at him and sees him watching her, eyes heavy, hand rubbing at the bulge in his jeans. Beth is mesmerized by the ruggedness of his hand against the washed out fabric—his scabbed knuckles and nerve-bitten nails, square-palmed and work hardened and dragging up and down his dick like her eyes could do it for him. She finds herself panting as she stumbles to her feet, shuffling her shoes to the side.

“Show me what you wanna do with me,” she murmurs.

He's enormous as he looms over her, all black leather and brimstone. He takes one step, then another, then seizes her by the back of the neck and drags her in for a bruising kiss.

She realizes he must have been holding back in the hallway, because this kiss is _violent_ —slashing and hungry and crawling down her throat like a wish down a well, swelling and expanding in the swerve of their heads and heat of their reaching hands. She tangles her fingers in his hair, scratching the back of his ears and gasping as he sucks on her tongue and spans her ribcage with his hands, shoving her backwards until her ass hits the sink. He bends her over with the weight of his kiss, and she has to throw a hand up and behind her head to support herself against the mirror as he grinds her between the sink and his hips.

“Fuck,” she gasps as he rips away from her mouth to kiss down her neck, wet sticky kisses that match the wet heat of his hands as they slide up under her sweater, shove the material above her bra, press her down by the collarbones as he lowers his mouth to suck on her breast. She gasps open-mouthed at the sensation, hooking a leg around his waist and winding a hand in his hair, _yanking_ in time to the swipes and licks of his tongue and teeth. She cries out again when he reaches into the cotton and pulls her out, pink and puckered; takes her in his mouth again, sucking and biting like he wants to mark her. Her bracelets make loud clanking noises against the mirror in time to his thrusts and she's close to coming from that alone.

“Christ, you taste good,” he mutters as he kisses across her chest to suck on the other breast through the cotton, slurping obscenely. Beth can only squeeze her eyes shut and scratch at his scalp, feel the slip slide of the oil between her fingers. His hands are still spread across the skin of her stomach, helping his hips to keep her pinned, and she arches her chest forward, gasping, the crown of her head pressed beside her hand to the mirror and her foot digging into the dimple of his ass.

“Please, please,” she breathes, not knowing what she's pleading for, not even caring as the feel of his body burns her up, runs through her veins like fire and lightning and sparks at each crease and crevice. Her tit is in his mouth, her pussy wet and weeping in her underwear, and she can't stop herself from arching all the way off the ground, suspended by her leg around his waist and her hand and head on the mirror and the sink creaking and digging into her lower back.

“Wait, wait,” she gasps, biting her lip violently as he tugs at her nipple with his teeth. “The sink—it's gonna—“

He laughs high in his throat, no more than a huff of air, the vibrations shooting through her nipple and making her sing. He snakes a hand around to support her lower back, short nails scraping her spine as she digs her heel into the crack of his ass, feeling the light fur of his back against her bare ankle. With warmth in front and warmth behind, his hand on her stomach slowly slides down across the zipper of her jeans to dig between their bodies with his thumb, pressing hard.

“Jesus H!” Beth shrieks, and suddenly the hand from her cunt is pressed to her mouth and his whole weight is bending her back again, making the pipes moan and rattle.

“Keep it down,” he growls. “You want the whole bar running in here?”

“No,” she gasps, the word flicking her tongue forward to taste the salt and sweat of his palm, and she remembers a picture she saw in Shawn’s Playboy once, of a girl spreadeagled and gagged—and doesn’t her mind reel at _that_ thought, racing and wild and _next time, next time when my head isn't so jumbled and please tell me there can be a next time_ and she shakes her head, overwhelmed by his presence and his dick hard against her thigh.

He brings his hand off her mouth and strokes it across her stomach soothingly, eyes lust-blown but kind.

“You good?”

“I'll be good,” she whispers.

A full body tremor shoots through him, and it’s like a switch has been flipped. With a snap of his eyes, the hand on her mouth comes down to grip her chin, bruisingly hard, suspending both feet off the ground and making the sink tilt alarmingly.

“And what if I want you _bad_?” he growls, whiskers scratching her lips with every word.

Even through her delirium, Beth has the presence of mind to raise her eyebrows, pull her mouth into a gasping smirk. “You’ll get that when you earn it,” she manages.

To both of their surprise, he huffs out a quick laugh. “You're a damn firecracker.”

“Don't know about that,” Beth says, barely controlling the spasming in her limbs. “I know what I want though.”

“Thank fuck you do.”

In a single move he growls and heaves her up, spinning around and slamming her into the door, holding her skull so his knuckles take the impact instead of her head. He growls into her neck, deep and feral, licking heavily at the crease of her jaw.

“Yes, yes,” she breathes, digging her heels into his spine so he grinds into her, making them both groan. He swallows her mouth with his again, kissing deep and wet as his hands go down to the fly of her jeans.

“Fuck, you're driving me crazy,” he whispers. “Sexy as hell...”

“You too,” she murmurs.

It comes out far shyer than she means it to, and it makes him pause, zipper down and revealing the blue cotton of her underwear. Looking into her eyes, he again rubs his thumb across her mound, pressing in on her pubic bone until the flesh between aches. He presses his forehead to hers and they watch his hand in tandem, circling and circling across the blue cotton, gliding on the hair and skin beneath.

“This feel good?” he murmurs, bringing the rest of his fingers down to slot inside her jeans and drag across her clit, making her convulse as she nods frantically. Her vocal cords have stopped working. Displeased with her silence, he jerks his finger painfully against her clit, swallows her cry with a biting kiss.

With a small step back he lets her slide from his waist to the ground, jelly-legged. He nods at her pants. “Take 'em off. All of it.”

She doesn't question him; just sheds her jeans and panties and throws them behind him to dangle off the sink. He digs his wallet out of his back pocket to yank out a condom; she's shocked (and a little proud) to see that his hands are trembling as heavily as hers. She can see herself in the mirror over his shoulder, and glances between him and it as he drops his wallet to the floor and looks her over; sweater suspended on her exposed tit, the stretch of flat belly and thatch of hair, the cute white cotton of her socks on the dingy floor. As far as Jimmy had expressed, the one time he got her naked, there wasn't much special to see—but where the boy she'd known since infanthood had been unimpressed, this stranger is looking at her like she's a goddess in pink and yellow, hair wild and lips sucked-red in the dim light of a bar's washroom. Meeting her eyes, he steps forward and spins her around, pinning her cheek against the door. She hears the crinkle of foil, and she whimpers out a gasp as he steps against her, the heavy curve of his dick settling between her ass cheeks.

He leans over her curved back so she can feel the brush of his lips on her ear as he talks, rubbing her ass up and down as he does. “You tell me if it's too much, a'right?”

“Yeah,” she breathes; he squeezes her ass brutally and she squeaks, “Yes, yes!”

She feels his grin on the shell of her ear, and then his nose against her skull as he looks down between them, spreading her asscheeks and encouraging her to arch further backward. His finger slides into her wetness, and they both groan.

“That's all for me?” he breathes in a voice startlingly close to wonder.

“All for you,” she whispers as he circles her opening with the rough pad of his finger, sinking inside to test her elasticity and making her moan. “More, please more,” she mouths, and by his chuckle she's sure he hears.

He spends a few leisurely minutes like this: Fucking her with his fingers, adding one and then another, the other hand trailing up and down her front, tweaking her nipple or clit when the fancy strikes him, rubbing off his cock on one cheek and then the other. By the time he withdraws she's a shaking desperate mess, shoving her ass back and ready to beg.

“Y'ready?” he whispers, teasing her opening with the head of his dick and she nearly cries.

“Yes,” she breathes.

He sinks deep inside.

The few times she's had sex have been short, awkward, and mildly painful. Jimmy, bless his heart, never seemed to know what to do with his hands; would get her on her back and pump away until his teenage urges were satisfied.

That was nothing compared to this. She feels no pain as he slips in and out, shallow strokes to test them both (although strangely, suddenly, desperately, she wishes it _would_ hurt—wishes he'd take her hard and fast instead of this maddening slide of slick on slick)—feels no shame in arching her back further, tangling her hand with his so he can get at her clit from the front. Her cheek is hot and moist from her own sweat sticking her to the door, the steam of her breath bounding back against her nose and mouth as his other hand winds around hers so he has one between her legs and the other against the wall. He's still barely moving, his face buried in her hair and breath coming deep and fast, hips snapping in the minutest movements that drive her crazy.

“Come on,” she whines, bucking back against him, and suddenly his hands clench and he shoves her forward, squeezing her breasts painfully against the door.

“You'd best be patient if you want this to last, girl,” he growls, groaning as she clenches her inner muscles around him.

“Please do something,” she whispers, yanking at the hand on the wall to try and get free. He just squeezes her tighter.

“Tell me what ta do.”

“Fuck me.”

“I can't hear ya.”

“Fuck me!”

“Fuck you _what_?”

“Please, please fuck me!—“

And he does, slamming into her with an upstroke that leaves her breathless, then leveling out, starting a steady pounding against the door. His breath is heavy in her ear and his stomach muscles hard on her ass and lower back as he thrusts and circles inside of her. He grabs one of her legs and heaves it up next to them until she finds purchase on the rim of the toilet, sock sliding precariously on the cheap porcelain. The change in angle makes her sob and she's burning, she's fire, she's a candle in a storm and he's fucking her brains, fucking her heart, fucking the slim line on her slim wrist where it lies like a fault line beneath his, grasped in his bruising fist.

She grips the hand between her legs with white knuckles as he rubs against and beneath her hood, rubbing and rubbing until the double pressure makes her foot slam off the rim and into the toilet and she sees stars. The tears in her eyes mingle with the sweat on her cheeks, the sticky squeak against the door a counterpoint to the squelch of their bodies and the hum of the jukebox from outside, the din of speech and clank of dishes as she gets fucked inside out in this shitty bathroom.

She's still coming as he finishes fucking her, slamming into her once, twice, until he spills with a deep groan, biting her shoulder through a mouthful of hair.

They come down slowly, breaths mingling in eddies against the door, doubling back on their faces. He pulls out of her with a quiet groan and she lifts her foot out of the toilet, lowering it to the ground shakily, wincing at the squelch it makes. She stays plastered to the door as his presence slides away from her, chill air hitting her overheated flesh and making her shiver. She turns around slowly and watches him pull the condom off, dick hanging unconcernedly out of his pants ( _so that's what one looks like_ , Beth thinks with a flush, remembering how she looks down there in a mirror, wishing she could have seen that thing disappearing inside her). She waits, but he doesn't look at her, so she slips around him, feeling the brush of his angel wing vest against her nose as she retrieves her jeans and panties from the now tilted sink, sliding them on her rubbery legs.

“I think we broke it,” she says with a little laugh—as the sound of the closing door echoes through the space.

She turns.

All that's left of him is a ripped foil and battered wallet, abandoned and lonely on the floor.

* * *

Maggie rushes up to her as soon as she exits the bathroom, wild eyed and concerned.

“Beth, where the heck were you? Zach said you went to the bar—Beth, honey, you look awful, what happened?”

“A panic attack,” Beth says, hair hanging bedraggled around her face. “I had a panic attack.”

“Oh honey.” Maggie draws Beth into her arms, holds her tight. “Listen, I'm really sorry about today; you're right, I shouldn't have brought you, I was being stupid—“

“It's fine, Maggie. Let's just go home.”

Maggie leads her out to the parking lot with her arm tight around her, cramping Beth's spine between the shoulder-blades. She only lets go when they reach the car; Maggie circles to the driver's side, but Beth pauses, looking back at the bar, at the empty space where a lone bike had peeled out only minutes before.

His wallet is heavy in her pocket. Beth gets in the car. She goes home.


	2. One Decent Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth returns the wallet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still reeling at the response to the first chapter; I never expected this little story to be so popular. I've planned out at least four more chapters (and yes there will be more smut, you adorable little pervs), so expect this story to be finished by the end of August.
> 
> Thanks as always to milkshakemicrowave, and to khaleesibetch for listening to me whine about this chapter.
> 
> Warnings for discussion of suicide and depression.

It's a perversely delicious feeling, the way she aches as she comes into wakefulness—in the track marks left by his hipbones and fingernails, the unfilled-ness between her legs. Usually an early riser, Beth allows herself the luxury of basking in it, lying on her back staring at the ceiling until noon, listening to every twitch of muscle and rumble of content. She knows the soreness will come back to haunt her later—she won't want to ride Nelly for a day at least—but for now, she lets it knit itself deep into her bones, the last proof of her memory of him.

Well. Second to last.

The wallet is incongruous where it lies in her hands against her lilac bedspread. It's made of what she assumes is faux leather, the spine reinforced by a strip of duct tape. She had left it in her jeans when she stripped the night before—didn't even bother with pajamas, just fell trembling into bed, the light rub of her underwear almost too much for her still-singing body to handle. She closed her eyes and felt his hands; opened them and saw his eyes, brutal but kind, like he knew what a gift he gave her when he fucked her raw in that bathroom. Beth isn't a fool. She doesn't need her two weeks of therapy to know that what she's going through can't be fixed, and especially not by another person. But she made more choices for herself in one night than she's made in the whole three months since her attempt. She decided to kiss him, she decided to follow him, she decided to open herself in a way she's never been opened.

She doesn't suffer from the delusion that what she feels is love. But lying there in her pink and purple bedroom, painted the same way its been since she was a girl, battered wallet in hand—she thinks she might be close to wanting something. Wanting him, wanting herself, wanting the way he makes her feel. The way he makes her want. She has so much to need; but she hasn't _wanted_ anything in a long time.

When the grumbles in her stomach become too much to ignore (she realizes she didn't eat at the bar—hasn't eaten since noon the day past, and Maggie must really be wrapped up in this Glenn guy not to have noticed), she heaves herself out of bed and into her clothing. She's about to leave the room when she pauses in the doorway, looks back. Sees the corner of the wallet peeking out from beneath her pillow.

She leaves it for now. In the end, Maggie makes the decision for her anyway.

Beth arrives on the landing and hears her sister's voice coming from the living area. From the tone of her voice, Beth knows she must be speaking to Glenn. Normally Beth wouldn't hesitate—no matter the secrets that seem to have sprung up in every corner of the Greene household, anything said out loud is considered public domain. But when Beth hears her own name, she pauses; sinks to her butt on the landing, knees to her chest, wincing at the twinge in her thighs.

“I should have known something would happen. What was I thinking, taking Beth to a _bar_ —“

Beth leans her head on the railing, closes her eyes.

“You didn't think she looked withdrawn when we got there?” A pause. “She is, but... God, Glenn, I don't know how to do this. If it were boy problems, fine, I could beat him up and be done with it. But even before Annette died, she was... she's never been really happy. Maybe if I'd been there more—“

 _It ain't your fault I'm like this, Mags,_ Beth thinks, blinking away tears. _It's me. It's just me._

“We _tried_ a doctor. She lasted two weeks before begging out. Said she'd do better at home.” A pause. “Listen, I better go check on her. I did have a great time last night. I'm glad we could do that.” Glenn says something. “I know.” Beth can practically hear Maggie wrinkling her nose. “How can you work for them, Glenn? I know you said most of them ain't so bad, but people like that...” Beth clenches her fists, remembering rough eyes, rough hands. “Alright. You too.”

Beth waits a minute before continuing down, so she couldn't be accused of eavesdropping. She finds Maggie on the couch, holding her phone and staring into the middle distance.

“Hey Mags,” Beth says quietly. Maggie's head snaps up, her face immediately flooded with the false contrition Beth's become familiar with.

“Hey Bethy,” she says quietly. “How're you feeling?”

“Better.” Maggie scoots over and pats the couch beside her, but Beth shakes her head. “Listen. I need a favor.”

“What?”

“I need to borrow your car.

Maggie gapes at her like she's spoken another language.

“ _What_?”

Beth exhales heavily. “Com'mon Maggie, please? Daddy won't be back from the Peters's foaling until tonight. He'll never know.

“It isn't Daddy I'm worried about.” Maggie stands up and walks over to Beth, puts her hands on her shoulders, squeezes lightly. “I really am sorry about what happened last night, Beth. I should have known—“

“Stop it!” Beth exclaims, yanking out of her grasp, glaring into Maggie's astonished eyes. “I'm sick of being treated like this, Maggie.”

“Like what?”

“Like... like I'm a piece of china an inch from shattering. I might not be strong yet, but I'm stronger than _that_.” She takes a deep breath. “I can't get well again if you keep treating me like I'm broken.”

“I know you ain't broken, Bethy.” Maggie steps forward and takes her hand. “I just don't want to lose you.”

“You won't,” Beth whispers, closing her eyes and leaning her forehead against Maggie's. “It's been three months, Mags. It's been hard, but... I made you a promise. I don't break my promises.”

“I know.” Maggie gives her a hug, squeezing her tight. “You be back in an hour,” she says sternly, pulling back. “I mean that. A minute more, and I'll... I’ll dye all your dresses brown or something!”

Beth finds it in herself to giggle. “You sure know how to threaten a girl.”

“I try.” She squeezes Beth's shoulder and fishes her keys out of her pocket. When Beth reaches for them, she yanks them out of her reach, stern through her smile. “Remember. An _hour_.”

“Alright, alright,” Beth mutters, grabbing the keys and booking it back up to her room before Maggie changes her mind.

* * *

Beth pulls up to The Prison Yard 20 minutes later, the wallet tenting her back pocket with a weight like the lump in her belly. She grips the steering wheel nervously, glancing around the lot, empty but for a beat-up Hyundai in the corner.

_Com'mon Beth,_ she thinks, closing her eyes. _He probably isn't even there. And so what if he is? It ain't like you did anything wrong. He's the one ought to be nervous._

Taking a deep breath, Beth gets out of the car and enters the restaurant, surprised when the doors swing open easily.

It's almost a different place, empty and in the light of day. Sun filters through the dust in the air, sparking off polished wood tabletops and stacked beer glasses. Only the lights around the bar are on, where the barkeep she recognizes from last night is sitting, working over some ledgers.

“Hello?” Beth says timidly, glancing around to be sure they're alone; she doesn't want one of the bikers jumping out of nowhere and throwing her off her tentative game.

The man turns and looks at her. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

Beth steps forward, drawing the wallet out to clutch in her hands. “Um, my name's Beth. I was here last night. With my sister.”

The man nods in recognition. “Ah, yes, I remember—you talked to Daryl at the bar, right?”

 _Daryl,_ Beth thinks, remembering his smoking eyes. There had been no identification in his wallet, just a few bills and the card for a tattoo place, depicting a woman hanging naked in chains—Beth had put _that_ away quickly—and this is her first time hearing the man's name.

“Yeah, Daryl,” Beth says. She proffers the wallet. “See, I saw this fall out of his back pocket, but I couldn't catch up to him—ya think you could hold onto it, give it back when you see him?”

“You can give it back yourself,” he says. Beth stiffens. He gestures towards the back of the bar. “The Inmates' clubhouse is right out back. He was there, last I saw. Just go around in the parking lot, you'll find it.”

“Uh, thanks,” Beth says. She gives the man a quick smile and turns on her heel.

When she's outside she pauses and turns her face to the sun, closes her eyes and breathes in the cool Georgia air. Despite the mild temperatures, she's started to sweat. She'd resigned herself to never seeing him again—assumed that was the last thing he’d want, after he damn near leapt out of his skin to get away from her—but now that she knows he's only yards away, she feels the same electricity creeping under her skin as she felt beneath his eyes last night.

 _It's ludicrous to be this nervous,_ she thinks. _I'm Beth motherfucking Greene. I can do this._

Taking a deep breath, she walks around the building.

Beth finds herself in a second lot, this one dominated by a mechanic's garage connected to a run-down clubhouse. Cars, bikes, and machine parts litter the yard. Standing beside a particularly grimy pick-up truck is a man she recognizes from last night—she thinks Daryl had indicated him as Martinez—chatting with two other men. One looks like little more than a boy, probably a few years above Beth's age; the other wears his eyebrows like ragged umbrellas, downturned and mean.

Screwing up her courage, Beth holds the wallet tight in her fist and approaches them.

The younger one notices her first. He nudges Martinez, and the trio looks her over curiously.

“Ey, _chiquita_ , you lost or something?” Martinez asks, leaning on one arm against the truck.

“I'm looking for Daryl,” Beth says. “The bartender said he was back here.”

The mean one scoffs loudly, looking her over with incredulous eyes. “Dixon got hold of a bitty like you? Be still my beating heart.”

“Daryl didn't say he was seeing anyone,” says the younger one.

“Of course he wouldn't tell _you_ , Jesus, Pete.”

“I'm just saying, Mitch—“

“Alright, alright, girls, calm down,” Martinez says, rolling his eyes. He jerks his head at Beth. “What you need him for? He didn't get you pregnant, did he?”

Mitch scoffs. “You think Dixon got his dick in this one? Brother couldn't scare up a titty in a whorehouse.”

“I just need to talk to him.” Beth says, cheeks burning. A pause. “I'm not pregnant,” she feels compelled to add.

Mitch looks like he wants to say something else, but Martinez punches him in the arm before he can get it out. “Shut your trap, Dolgen, have some courtesy.” He jerks his thumb towards the garage, indicating a beat up Camaro. “He's working on that one. Use small words, he's not all that with it today.”

“Thanks,” Beth says, shooting them a hesitant smile before wandering over to the car. As she comes around to the other side, she sees a familiar pair of boots and jeans sticking out from underneath. A sliver of stomach is visible above the waistline of his pants, and Beth colors. Cognizant of the three men watching her, she shuffles from foot to foot, wishing she'd spent longer thinking on what she'd say.

“Daryl?” she finally says, clearing her throat.

There's some muffled banging and an irate, “What?” before he's rolled out and is squinting up at her, shading his eyes from the sun. She sees the exact moment he recognizes her; the color drains from his ruddy cheeks and he scrambles to his feet.

“The fuck you doing here?” he asks, pulling a rag out of his back pocket and rubbing his face harshly. The rag is even filthier than his skin, and leaves a streak of grease across his right eyebrow. He's wearing the same shirt as yesterday, or at least something similar: Sleeveless flannel slashed with oil across the front. His hands are coated in the stuff, and it gives her a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, imagining that darkness on her skin.

 _What the hell's the matter with you?_ she thinks, blushing frantically, unable to hold his gaze. _Just give him the wallet and get out._

But something in her rebels at the notion of running. She thinks about Maggie's perception of these men—brutish and mean, the type to be avoided. She can't deny that Daryl can be brutish—would be a hypocrite if she denied it, the way it makes her react—but she can't identify anything she'd describe as meanness. In fact, he looks about as scared as she is, shuffling his feet in front of her like a guilty toddler. Beth feels a sudden rush of power, standing in this over-bright yard—sees the bottled words woven in his tight shoulders and hunched spine, the defensive shame in his eyes. Beth isn't the weak one here; with this man, she's strong.

This realization comes as she looks him over, the first time she's seen him in daylight: Grease stains on his shirt and skin, sweat dripping like a rainforest down his face; large hands and broad shoulders that must still bear the scores of her fingernails—she looks at him, and she gets mad.

She gets real mad.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she says, surreptitiously sliding the wallet into her back pocket.

“What about?” he asks warily, glancing towards where his three friends are congregated. Beth deliberately moves between him and them. His eyes snap to hers in surprise.

“I want to know what the hell happened yesterday.”

Daryl snorts. She can tell he's nervous. “Damn, girl, your daddy never gave you the birds and the bees?”

“I don't mean the _fucking_ ,” Beth says, just to see him squirm; she knows how people react to bad language coming out of her rose-petal lips. “I mean you leaving me there with my pants around my ankles.”

“You wanted me to pull up your panties for you?”

“That might have been a start,” Beth says dryly. He squints at her, like he isn't sure if he's supposed to take her seriously or not. “I get if I wasn't much good—“

“That ain't—“ He stops, blushing furiously.

A secret smile crawls across Beth's lips. “I _was_ good then?”

“Was alright,” he mumbles, looking at his feet. Outside she stays composed, but inside Beth is doing a jig. Impressing a man with as much experience as he must have does wonders for her self-esteem, and she again realizes the power she has in this moment.

“Why'd you leave then?” Beth asks.

“Had to go,” he mutters. “No reason to stay. Didn't mean nothin' to me.”

“Bullshit,” Beth states plainly. She glances back at the three men watching them. As she expected, they are glued to the scene; Martinez raises a skeptical eyebrow at her, and she turns back to Daryl. He's looking almost desperate. “You ain't the type to fuck and leave.”

He stares at her incredulously. “The fuck you know about me?

“I know you're as lonely as I am.” Beth hadn't known this, exactly, until the moment she says it; but as the words pass her lips she knows it's true. “I know you don't have much control in your life; 's why you liked ordering me around so much.” Daryl starts to hyperventilate. “I know you didn't want to be there last night. I know you're lost, and scared, and I know you ain't happy. You don't say the stuff you did if you're happy.”

“The fuck you care what gets me hot—“

“Not that,” Beth says quietly. “You told me about your momma.”

That shuts him right up. He stands there, gaping at her, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Maybe you're right,” Beth says, pitched low, so he leans in automatically to hear, “Maybe I wasn't up for making that decision. But I made it. It happened. _We_ happened. I ain't letting you ignore it cause you're _scared._ ”

Daryl shakes his head, looking like he's been struck between the eyes. “The fuck you want from me, girl? Huh? You think cause we had one fuck you deserve a wedding ring—“

“Of course not!” Beth says, louder. He glances over her shoulder like he's afraid his friends will hear. She raises an eyebrow knowingly, and continues speaking at that level. “I want you to be honest with me.”

“Keep it down—“

“You keep tellin' me to shut up, I might take offense,” she spits. She steps forward and jabs his sternum with her finger. She can see the pulse jumping in his neck, fast as a jackrabbit's. “Why. Did. You. Leave?

“I don't gotta explain myself—“

“Yes you fucking do!” Beth yells. She shoves him, and he hits the car hard. Three months of pent up agitation, three months of being watched and monitored and treated like glass, and it all comes pouring out. “You wanna fool yourself into thinking you're an asshole? Fine. But don't you dare call me the kind of weak that I'd go with one. You respected me enough to tell me somethin' that's got you hurting; you treated me like a person, you asked what I wanted, you were a _decent human being_ —why's that all got to go away in the morning?”

He's staring at her like he can't understand the words coming from her mouth. He shakes his head slowly, the whites of his eyes like a spooked horse’s.

“You thought that was _decent_?” he finally says, strangled.

“Yeah. It was. It was the first decent thing someone's done for me in a long time.”

They stand there staring at each other in the blazing sunlight, close enough that Beth can feel the whisper of his shirt against her front with every breath. He's shiny and sticky with sweat and who knows what else, with crow's feet aplenty and bags beneath his eyes; but lord above, in his eyes all she sees is a boy.

He glances over her head one more time, and all the fight seems to flee his body. He slumps against the car, looking at her a moment, then reaches a tentative hand forward to cup her elbow. “Com'mon,” he mutters, nudging her. She follows his lead. They walk into the garage, which is far cleaner than she expected it to be, and through a wooden door that opens into some kind of office. He closes the door behind her, and leans against it, rubbing his eyes.

Beth perches on the edge of the desk, watching him, the adrenaline slowly leaching from her veins. Exhausted tears prick at her eyes, but she shakes them away; she isn't allowed to fall apart anymore.

“You're killin' me girl, you know that?” he mutters.

She doesn't think she's meant to hear it, but she responds anyway. “Better than myself, right?”

His head jerks up, staring at her aghast, eyes questioning. At her soft smile, though, he relaxes; even chuckles a little, shaking his head.

“How the fuck'd we end up here?”

“I'm a spirited gal.”

He snorts. “Reckon that's so.” He looks up at her, wipes his hands on his jeans. “Was wrong to leave you. Knew it at the time too; didn't stop me.” He looks at the ground. “I don't always think things through.”

“If you did, I doubt we'd be in this position at all.”

He snorts again. “Right.” He looks at her through his fringe of hair, chewing his upper lip. Beth remembers when he did that to her last night, and almost wishes he hadn't closed the office door; it's giving her ideas she doesn't think she's ready for; let alone what he’s prepared to do.

He’s still eyeing her with an attention that sends shivers down her spine. “Wha’s your name, anyway?”

Beth can’t help it—she falls forward at the waist, bubbling with giggles that turn into full-fledged belly-laughter.

When she sits up, wiping at her eyes, he has the strangest expression on his face—like somewhere in the world a light’s come on, and he can see again.

“Beth,” she says, still struggling to breathe. “I’m Beth Greene.

His face slides into a smirk, even as his eyes stay wide. “Daryl Dixon. But it looks like you knew that already.”

“Always good to hear again.”

They relax into a comfortable silence, scrutinizing each other. Beth notes that he’s got the beginnings of a sunburn around his neck; wonders if there’s anyone to tell him to mind it.

“So. Beth Greene,” he finally says; it thrills her how his mouth rolls around her name. “The way I see it, I fucked a prissy queen bitch,” he smiles through the words, and she doesn't take offense, “and you fucked nobody biker scum. Where the fuck we go from there?”

Beth smiles and pushes herself off the desk, walks to him slowly. He watches her coming like a rabbit watching a hawk; but when she touches his wrist, he relaxes; damn near melts into her hand when she presses it to his cheek.

Raising herself on tiptoe, Beth presses her lips to his—softly, gently, barely a brush of skin on skin—it's like their first kiss, but not, because he doesn't freeze; he's alive and warm against her mouth as he responds. It's chaste, and but for its length could be a motion between friends; but it sends Beth's heart racing. She's sure he can feel it, the way their chests are pressed together. She can sure feel his heart, pounding fast and strong, leaning into hers like it wants to breach the skin between them.

She pulls back and looks at him; is astonished, in this light, how blue his eyes are, how open, how wondrous.

_Where do we go from here?_

His hand has drifted down to rest on her hip, rubbing back and forth gently. Again, she raises herself onto her toes; brings her mouth to his ear; speaks softly, only for him.

“We make something better.”


	3. A Kind of Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth and Daryl get to know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait - this dang thing just didn't want to be written. Eternal thanks to milkshakemicrowave, as always, and to khaleesibetch for inspiring part of this chapter.

They're back in the positions they were in when they entered the office; Daryl leaning on the wall beside the door, Beth perched on the desk, swinging her legs. They're still eyeing each other, but not as warily as before; Daryl's arms are looped loosely across his chest, one ankle crossed over the other, chin tucked as he watches her.

Her lips still tingle, minutes later, from touching his. She doesn't know if it's some special power of his mouth, or if it's the quiet way he regards her, eyes luminous and piercing in the dim office, that has her insides rolling and tongue wagging, sets her skin on fire.  The light shining through the blinds leaves dark bars across his shirt and arms, and despite the brightness of the day, the light here is dim. Beth wonders at how much better they do in the dark; like the bar, like the bathroom, like the office, opens something in both of them that would shudder in the light of day.

“What're we doing here anyway?” he finally asks, from deep in his chest.

“What do you mean?”

“Why're you still here? Seems I should'a run you off by now.”

Beth shrugs. “I wanna be here.”

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

Daryl looks her over, shaking his head. “I'd say so. Girl like you—“

“You keep saying that,” Beth says. “'A girl like me.' You know many girls like me, Daryl Dixon?”

Daryl colors, scratching at his neck. “Plenty,” he mumbles.

“Then what do you mean by it?”

“Ain't the kinda girl oughta be hanging out with an asshole like me, 's all,” he mutters.

“I think I'm the one oughta decide that.”

Daryl shakes his head, the strongest gesture he's made since dragging her in here. “Nah, it ain't. Your sister's the one's gonna decide. Your daddy. He the kinda dad I expect he is, he won't want you running with me. Wants you with a nice, clean farmer boy. The type'd take you to prom, buy you pretty shit.”

“I'd go to prom with you.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, but he can't help the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You're nutty, girl.”

“Only reason I'd date you, right?”

He looks at her sharply. “We're _dating_ now?”

“Well, yeah.” She feels herself flush, hopes she's deep enough in the shadows that he doesn't notice. “Why, you do this kinda stuff with people you aren't dating?”

The moment the words leave her lips, she's terrified of his answer; but he looks just as uncomfortable as she does. “Never been much for dating,” he mutters. “Not sure I'd be good at it.”

“Ain't that hard,” Beth says with a rush of confidence she doesn't fully feel. “You just do, you know, couple stuff. Walk around, ride the ferris wheel. Talk.”

“Fuck in a bed?”

“Get milkshakes,” she says, cheeks burning. She knows he can see her flush now, the way he's smirking.

“Jesus, girl, all your notions on boys come from _The Notebook_ or something?”

“You've seen _The Notebook_?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it should be obvious. “Seen everything. Time was, I needed to get outta the house, only place in walking distance with A/C was the movie theatre.”

“Why'd you need to get out?”

The air between them goes a little cold. Daryl shifts uncomfortably.

The silence stretches. Just as it's about to become agonizing, he mumbles, “Never had no milkshakes before.”

Beth raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Nah.”

“Wanna get some?”

Daryl looks at her sharply. “What, like a date?”

“Well, we are dating,” she says, daring him to contradict her. He looks at her through his bangs.

“Told ya, I ain't no good at that.”

“It ain't like I have much experience either,” Beth says.

He raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“You think I've dated around? Damn, I didn't think I was _that_ good.”

Daryl's mouth gapes open and closed a few times, like goldfish gills. Beth feels the rush of power she's coming to expect when it comes to him. It thrills her somewhere deep in her belly, to see him off-kilter.

“I've only dated one guy before,” Beth says, drumming her heels a few times against the desk. She smiles brightly. “So, see? We ain't that different.”

He huffs skeptically, but at least he isn't avoiding her eyes. He scratches at his cheek, then jumps a little when he notices he's still under her steady gaze. “What, you mean now?”

“No, not _now_ . I gotta...” Beth trails off, staring at him with a frown on her face. He jumps nearly sky high when she gasps, scrambling out of the chair to look at the clock on the wall. “ _Crap_ ,” she hisses. “I told Maggie I'd be back in 10 minutes.”

He straightens with her, going rigid, suddenly looking nervous again.

“Y'need a ride?” he asks.

“Nah, I have her car,” Beth says distractedly, looking around for her purse before remembering she left it in the car. “Crap-sticks,” she says again, running a hand through her hair. She looks up, and Daryl is smirking. “What?”

He shrugs. “You're cute, 's all.” For once, she seems more embarrassed than he does; he sticks his hands in his pockets and watches as she tries to regain her composure, pressing down the butterflies that have erupted in her stomach.

Before she can stammer out something embarrassing, someone bangs loudly on the door, making them both jump.

“Hey Dixon!” they shout; Beth thinks it sounds like Martinez. “Candy's gonna be back soon, and she won't take kindly to cum all over her office.”

Cheeks burning, Daryl strides to the door and yanks it open. “We weren't doing nothing, asshole,” he hisses, stepping aside so he can examine the lack of evidence himself.

Daryl doesn't seem to expect Martinez to step in and look over Beth, then back to Daryl.

“The fuck you've been doing in here, then?”

“Playing Jenga,” Daryl snaps, glancing nervously at Beth. “Listen, she's gotta go—“

“Your name's Martinez, right?” Beth asks, stepping up and thrusting her hand forward. Both men look at it like it's a rattler. “I'm Beth.”

“Caesar,” he says slowly, reaching out to shake her hand. His hand is roughly callused, like Daryl's, with an uneven knuckle that looks like it's been broken at least once. He looks her over again, then shakes his head. “I didn't know you had this kind of game, Dixon. I'm impressed.”

“Just get outta my way,” Daryl grumbles, grabbing Beth's hand and shoving past him. Despite the similarity between their hands, Beth feels a little thrill shoot through her at the press of Daryl's palm that she hadn't felt with Martinez's; some sort of possession that makes her weak in the knees.

“It was nice to meet you, Caesar,” she says over her shoulder.

They're already halfway across the yard before she hears, “You too, _chiquita_!”

The word of Beth's visit seems to have spread, for the yard is more crowded than it was when she arrived. She sees Mitch leaning on a fierce looking Harley, blatantly leering. He catches her gaze and wolf whistles.

“You gonna share some, Dixon?” he hollers.

“Shut up, asshole,” Daryl shouts; he's gone bright red, and seems more hassled than Beth is.

“At least tell us where you found her, man; can't keep that kinda candy to yours—OW!”

Beth looks back and sees that Martinez had come down from the office and cuffed Mitch across the back of the head. She hears him jabber out a few beratements before she and Daryl reach the corner of the bar and vanish out of sight.

Daryl slows some once their voices have faded, loosening his hold on her hand (but not, she notes with pleasure, releasing her). She in turn tightens her grip, quickening her stride to draw abreast.

“Caesar seems nice,” she says, hoping to ease his stormy expression.

Daryl snorts, opens his mouth to say something angry; but then he glances at her, and his face softens. They've slowed to a little less than a normal walking pace, as if he wants to draw out the time before they reach her car as long as possible.

“He's a'right,” Daryl says. “Better'n Mitch, anyway.”

“Everyone seems better than Mitch,” Beth says dryly.

Daryl lets out a surprised laugh, glancing at her again. “You think you got us pegged already, huh?”

“I'm a quick learner,” she says, squeezing his hand. He turns away from her, flushes and mutters something under his breath.

By now they've reached the side of Maggie's car, and Daryl slows, then disentangles his hand from hers reluctantly. They stand by the car, him awkwardly, her open and waiting.

“So, uh, milkshakes, huh?” he says, looking at her through his bangs.

Beth grins widely, and strides forward to hug him. He jumps and stiffens under her hold; but the longer she stays there, tucked under his chin, the more relaxed he grows, until she can feel a tentative hand curl around her elbow.

“I'm supposed to hang out with friends after school on Wednesday,” she says, tilting her head so she can look up at him without moving. He seems a little uncomfortable, speaking to her this close, but he doesn't push her away. “Wanna go to Mary Jane's?” she asks, mentioning the town's local throwback diner.

“What about your friends?”

Beth shrugs. “Didn't really wanna go anyway. They'd just talk about boys and how slutty everyone is except for them.”

Daryl raises an eyebrow, stepping back so he's leaning up against the car and she can settle against him more comfortably. One of his hands is stroking sparks into the skin at the small of her back. “Damn, there goes all my topics for conversation.”

Beth giggles, then raises herself on her tiptoes to peck him on the lips. His hands clench against her even as she pulls away. Smiling over her shoulder, she takes out her key and unlocks the door, sliding into the seat. She lowers the window and tosses his wallet to him, which he catches with a fumble.

“Mary Jane's at five on Wednesday, then?” Beth says, sticking her head out the window.

He's still staring blankly at the wallet; he snaps back to attention and looks at her with something akin to wonder. “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, ok.”

“Great,” Beth says, heart pounding. She shoots him one last smile before pulling out of the lot.

Her lips still haven't stopped tingling.

* * *

“Ok, Bethy; who is he and how deep of a background check do I need to run?”

Beth jerks back guiltily. She's rarely felt as much of a stereotype as she does now—buried waist deep in her closet, muttering to herself and flipping through clothing like a madwoman. She glances at her bedside clock and realizes she hasn't moved for twenty minutes.

 _Even Molly Ringwald went with Bender..._ she thinks, a little hysterically, as Maggie watches her from the doorway.

“There isn't anyone,” Beth says, sounding full of bullshit even to her own ears. “I'm going to the movies with Emma.”

“Uh-huh, not buying it.”

“Just wanna look nice, 's all.”

“You? No way.” Maggie strolls into the room and flops down on Beth's bed. “Com'mon, baby sister; spill.”

Beth bites her lip. She's never been good at bullshitting; her wide eyes and limpid mouth write her emotions across her face as easily as breathing. Even if she could fool some people, none of them would be Maggie.

“There isn't much to say!” she insists, turning back to the closet to hide her face.

“Bullshit,” Maggie says calmly.

“It's just a guy, alright,” Beth mumbles, burying herself back in the closet so Maggie doesn't see what a lie that is.

“Does he know you're coming, or are you planning on “running into him”?”

Beth rolls her eyes. “He knows, Mags, Jesus.”

“I know all the tricks in the book, hon, I wouldn't judge you for it.” Beth rubs the fabric of a sundress between her fingers. “Is he good to you, at least?”

 _He's_ definitely _good_ , Beth thinks with a flash of heat. _Not the time, not the time, fuck, Beth_.

Ever since she met with him on Saturday, Beth can't stop thinking of his hands on her; she keeps running through the scenarios of how this date could go, how she'd be able to get them back to his place for a repeat performance. It's especially bad at night. Beth's never been much for touching herself—has found the whole practice awkward and embarrassing—but now she can barely go a night without burying her hand between her legs. She'd consider sharing her worries with someone if the constant tingles, the butterflies, the _awareness_ of herself and the world, didn't feel so good. Didn't feel like _something_.

“It's new,” she finally says, after far too long a pause. “I don't know him that well, but... yeah, I think he's good.”

“If you're sure,” Maggie says. Beth hears the bedsprings squeak as Maggie stands and makes her way over to lean on the wall by the closet. Beth glances at her. She's assumed her big sister face, uppity but compassionate. “I know I'm the last person to have the moral ground to demand you tell me about him,” she says; Beth looks at her out of the corner of her eye, still flipping through the clothes. “But you do know, he lays a single hand on you and I'll feed him his balls for breakfast.”

 _If only you knew,_ Beth thinks with another edge of hysteria. She suddenly hears her old pastor’s voice in her head, a voice she hasn't heard since he left their parish when she was little: _He who lies in sin lives in sin. Cast out the evil, cast it out!_ She doubts he's ever had an evil feel this good, though.

“I know, Mags,” Beth says, pulling out a pair of jeans.

Maggie begins thumbing through her clothes along with her. “So, what are you going for: Sweet cheeks or slut bomb?”

“Maggie!”

“Just asking!” Maggie rolls her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I was young once too.”

“You're 24.”

“ _Regardless_. I know all the moves and then some, Bethy.”

“He seems to like me in my normal clothes, so...” Beth mumbles, remembering his hands under her sweater.

“That's endearing and all, but I think we can go a bit farther.” Beth stumbles as Maggie shoves her out of the way, flipping through her clothes rapidly. “Hold up, I'll find you something.”

Beth sighs, going to lie on her bed, rub the scar beneath her bracelets, and prepare herself to play Maggie's dress up doll.

* * *

In the end, the outfit she ends up with isn't as offensive as she expected it to be: A strapless floral dress that skims the middle of her thighs, overlaid with a light cardigan. Maggie even let her wear her normal boots along with it.

 _Let me_ , Beth thinks, rolling her eyes as she pushes through the frosted front doors. _At least she didn't demand to meet the boy_.

The boy—and it rankles Beth to think of him as that, for neither his demeanor nor her few memories of him allow it—is waiting for her in one of the booths along the windows, shredding a napkin on top of the brightly colored menu. Everything about Mary Jane's is bright—from the waitresses' red-lipped smiles to their smart and shining shoes, from the over-waxed floor to the fire-engine upholstery. Daryl's scruffy hair and leather jacket over a plain black tee are incongruous against the waxy vinyl; she can only imagine what he'd look like in his typical sleeveless flannel. She's a bit touched to see how cleaned up he is—it seems he even took a comb to his hair, although his scruff is as unruly as ever—even if the more carnal part of her is disappointed. She likes him in oil and grease—he seems more at ease, less self-conscious, with a layer of dirt on his skin.

Despite the soft clip of her boots he seems to hear her approach, glancing up when she's still a few steps away. She shivers at the skitter of his eyes across her skin as he takes in her long bare legs and the wings of her collarbones; by the time he reaches her face his eyes are half-lidded and heavy, and Beth suddenly wishes they were back at the bar, or at his clubhouse—somewhere with dark corners and smoky air, where they could slip away unseen.

But she had asked him to this place of color and light, and it's with a smile that she slides across from him into the booth, tucking her dress under her body.

“Sorry I'm late; Maggie had me trying on my whole damn wardrobe!”

“Was worried you weren't coming,” he says quietly, glancing between her and the napkin in his hands. She's struck by how much smaller he looks here, something much easier to handle; she doesn't know if it's his lack of ease in the location or his worry about her, but either way it strikes her breathless, that he's allowing her to see it. She bites her lip and stretches her hand across to slide into his, catching a bit of napkin between their palms.

She ducks her head to catch his eye, smiling when she feels his hand curl around hers. “Here now, yeah?”

The slip of his mouth curving upwards makes her heart flutter. “Yeah.”

They order a large fries to share and a milkshake each (strawberry for her, black and white for him). Daryl shifts uneasily under the waitress's sunny, slapped on smile, keeping his eyes on Beth as she chats easily with the woman, asking after her kids and how her new dog's settled in. When she moves off to queue their order, Beth turns to Daryl, smiling.

“I'm glad you could make it,” she says. She looks around, a bit sheepish. “I realize this isn't your kind of place...”

“A little cutesy,” he says. He seems to be making an effort to relax some, slouching back in the booth and untucking his chin. The bright lights reflect off a shiny scar that slashes across his cheek; she hopes she can ask where he got it, someday.

“Well. Next time we'll do somewhere more your speed.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Next time?”

“Yes,” she says primly.

“Bit presumptuous, ain't it?”

“I don't think so. You're having a good time, aren't you?”

The smile that spreads across his face is slow, and warms her to her very core. “Nowhere better to be.”

“No. There ain't.”

* * *

The time before their food arrives flies by faster than Beth can think. As it is, she speaks more in ten minutes than she has in the past three months, and she isn't close to stopping. He's said a few words, in the meantime; interjected a word or phrase, posed a question; but on the whole he's sat there silent, watching her chat, eyes alternating between squinting and considering, and wide and astonished, like he doesn't know quite what to make of her. She doesn't much know herself.

When the waitress brings out their fries and shakes, Beth immediately pops the straw into her mouth, sucking deeply and sighing.

“Mmmmh, nothin's better than Mary Jane's milkshakes.” She looks up, and sees Daryl staring at his like it's milk gone sour. “What're you waiting for? Try it.”

“I ain't never had none before, alright? Lemme savor the moment.”

Beth rolls her eyes, grabbing a fry and dunking it in her shake. Daryl looks at her, astonished.

“It'd probably be even better with the black n’ white,” she says, raising her eyebrows, daring him. “Com'mon Daryl, it ain't gonna make you go blind.”

He glares at her, muttering, “I've drunk shit would curl your hair, girl,” before sucking the straw into his mouth. She watches intently as his face relaxes into a smile, the way his lips purse and pull—then suddenly he's rearing back, teeth clenched.

“What's the matter?”

“'S cold,” he mutters, rubbing his jaw.

Beth bursts out laughing, drawing the attention of several other patrons. “Look at you, the big bad Daryl Dixon, with brain freeze.”

“Watch your sass, girl,” he says, without heat. He digs his hand into the fries, pulling out a handful and shoving half of them in his mouth at once. He pauses when he sees Beth's incredulous stare. “What?”

“You gonna wash your hands or something?”

“My hands are clean!”

“I saw how much grease you get on your bike, mister.”

He raises his eyebrows, dropping the leftover fries back into the basket and making a big show of rubbing his hands across his jeans. She doubts those are much cleaner than his hands, but he's glaring at her like he's daring her to object, and she leaves it be. She sees it as the challenge it is: She dragged him to this place, out of his element; she has to be willing to dirty her sensibilities too. It isn't so hard a choice. Being in his company is worth a little grease on her fries.

“So how's your week been?” she asks brightly, niggling a fry out from the bottom of the basket, where he hasn't touched.

“A'right,” he says, dunking his own fry and chewing on it consideringly. She flashes him a questioning thumbs up, and he smirks. “What about you?”

“It's been ok.” She sighs.

Daryl raises an eyebrow. “Don't seem alright to me.”

“Nah, it's just... everyone's been all overbearing since that night at the bar.”

Daryl stiffens. “You didn't tell them—“

“No!” Beth says, a little too loudly. “No, of course not,” she says, lower. “I told Maggie I'd had a panic attack. I didn't know what else to do...”

“Couldn't tell 'em the truth, right?” Daryl says a little bitterly.

Beth raises an eyebrow. “You'd tell your sister about having,” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “sex, in a bar bathroom?”

Daryl shrugs, trying to hide a smirk. “Don't know about no sister; my brother's probably screwed ten girls in there.”

Beth frowns. “Did you—“

“No,” he says, meeting her eyes strongly for the first time since they've gotten there, so directly it steals her breath. “I didn't tell no one. I ain't that kinda guy, Beth.”

“I know,” she breathes, shifting in her seat.

“Why'd you ask then?”

She laughs nervously. “Whole thing's got me turned upside down, tell you the truth. I ain't never done something like that in my life.”

Daryl opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then closes it, glancing at the table top and then back up at her shyly. She looks at him questioningly, but he avoids her gaze, grabbing another handful of fries.

“Merle's your brother, then?” Beth asks, to break the silence. “I remember him calling you that, but I wasn't sure if that was a... biker thing.”

Despite himself, Daryl smirks. “Nah, he's my bro alright. When he's around at least.” He looks out the window into the parking lot. “Probably in the clubhouse right now, planning some sort of nonsense.”

“Are you close?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Daryl turns back to her, squints. “He's all I've had, most of the time.”

“After your... mom?”

Daryl nods jerkily, looking into the middle distance. “Before then too.” He snorts quietly. “'Tween drinking away the day and appeasing my pop, didn't have much time for me and Merle.”

Beth isn't quite sure what he means by the second half of the first clause, but it sends chills down her spine.

“My momma died,” she says quietly. She finds she can't meet his eyes anymore; looks down and fiddles with her fingers. “'Bout a year ago. Daddy didn't do well, hadn't for a while. Began drinking when she got the diagnosis. He'd come home...” Beth trails off, then shakes her head. “Sobered up now though.” She echoes his snort, rubs at her wrist. “I gave him enough to deal with.”

“When'd you do that?” Daryl asks, jerking his chin at her wrist.

“Three months ago.” She rubs a finger along the line under her bracelets. “Don't even know why I did it, looking back,” she says quietly. “Just one day I was in the bathroom, and I couldn't stop thinking about my momma, about... about me, how I deal with things... just didn't see a reason not to.” Beth gives a short, mirthless laugh, wiping at her eyes in the glistening diner. “Seems so silly of me, right? She was basically Maggie's mama too. But it didn't tear her up. Not like me.”

“Don't mean nothing bad about you, Beth.” She looks up at him, and twin spots of color appear on his cheeks. “I mean... everyone loses people differently, 's all.”

“I guess.”

“Ain't like you really wanted to die anyway.”

Beth frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

He avoids her gaze, squinting again out the window. He raises a thumb to his mouth, chews on the nail. He glances back and sees her still frowning, and shrugs self-consciously. “Seen enough scars like that,” he mumbles, “Anyone cut that shallow didn't really want it.”

Beth blinks at him for a few moments. “I guess not.” She sighs. “Seems I should feel like a coward, huh? Not even brave enough to do that. But I keep thinking... this, all this, it's all so much worse than whatever must've been waiting. Just getting through the day. Seeing the way people look at me.” She glances at him shyly. “You don't look at me like that.”

His cheeks have darkened again, and he won't meet her eyes. “Gotten too much of it myself, I guess.”

“You ever tried...”

“Nah.” He glances up at her, bites his lip. “Thought about it though. Sometimes Merle's voice in my head's all there is stopping me, calling me a pussy for even considering it.” He shrugs, and smirks a little. “Merle ain't as in touch with his feelings as I am.”

Beth can't help but smile a little. “He must be pretty bad, then.”

“Didn't I tell you to watch your mouth?” he says, but he's smiling—an honest to God smile with teeth and everything—and Beth's whole body feels light.

It's intense, all this good feeling being directed onto her, and Beth has to look away, peer at her hands, fiddling in her lap.

“I'm glad we could do this,” she says softly, glancing up at him. “It's been a long time since I did something for myself, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Family's hard,” Beth says quietly, not noticing the way he tenses up. “It seems they're either around too much or not enough.” Beth picks at a fingernail. “I miss my momma. I miss my big brother Shawn—he's in Atlanta taking the bar. I love Daddy and Maggie, but it's like they think enough of their love will fill in the empty spaces.” Beth glances up at Daryl; he's watching her, expressionless. “It ain't their fault, not really. They're just doing what family does.” Beth smiles fondly. “When I was little, there's this one meadow on our lands we'd go out to, me and Shawn and Mama and Maggie and Daddy, and we'd sit there, just chatting till Otis—our farmhand, Otis—appears out of the grass with a watermelon on his shoulder, bigger than a horse's head! And we'd break it open and all take chunks, and Maggie'd get hers in my hair and Mama would scold and we'd all eat ourselves sick.” Beth sniffs. “I want that feeling again, you know. Of being open, and clean. Spittin' up watermelon.” Beth looks up from her lap. Daryl is sitting with an inscrutable expression, hunched forward, eyebrows dark. “Did you ever—“

“I gotta take a piss.”

“...Oh. Ok.” Beth watches, eyebrows furrowed, as he pushes himself out of the booth and stalks to the back of the diner, shoulders hunched.

 _What did I say?_ Beth wonders, thinking back, realizing... his conflicted feelings for his brother, a drunk mama, a daddy he won't talk about—and here's Beth painting the perfect fairytale life for herself, replete with hugs and flowers.

“Crap,” Beth mutters, bending her head and rubbing her eyes with her hands. She understands how her words might have hurts him, might have seemed like salt on the wound after what he’d shared with her—but Beth hadn’t been able to shut herself up.

Speaking too much has never been a problem in her relationships—she'd get her point across when it needed to be, sure, but always carefully, measured, kind and diplomatic to a fault. How many times had Jimmy complained that she never let herself _go_ —always sat prim and proper, lips twisted in melancholy as the wilder girls danced and kissed and fucked. They never would have lasted, even without Beth's momma's illness—but it would have been from Beth's silence, not her speech. And here she goes, blabbering on like she’s one of her friends.

She doesn't recognize this person she is when she's with Daryl, and she doesn’t know if it should scare her or not. Not that she's a stranger, or even a passerby—more like a distant friend come round for brunch, bearing lemon water and sunny days. Even if she’s hurt him, she can’t fault herself for it; not when she feels more alive than she has in months.

She's still rubbing her eyes when she hears the vinyl across from her squeak. She sighs.

“Listen, Daryl, I didn't mean—“

But it isn't Daryl.

“What the heck are you doin' here, Beth?” her old friend Marlene asks, curly hair bouncing as she plops into the seat. She reaches for a fry before she's even settled. “Thought you and Emma were goin' to the movies?”

“Plans changed,” Beth says distractedly, glancing towards the bathroom. “Listen, Marlene, this isn't a great time—“ She gestures meaningfully.

“Oooohh, is this about Jimmy?” Marlene stage whispers, glancing around the restaurant and leaning closer. “Did the dick weed finally agree to take you back? I swear, Beth, the way he treated you—“

“Jimmy did alright by me,” Beth says, fiddling with her sweater. Sucking in a deep breath, Beth forces out a smile. “How you doing anyway? You and Steven working things out?”

Marlene rolls her eyes. “Me'n Steven? Puh-lease. He's going with that skank Joanie Richards and I couldn't care less.” She snags another fry. “When're you gonna let me hook you up, Beth?” She waggles her eyebrows. “Davey Jacobs just broke up with his girl. Think of handling all that man—“

“I wouldn't call him a _man_."

“Best you're gonna do in this school,” Marlene says, shaking her head. Her eye catches on something over Beth's shoulder. “'Scuse me, can I help you?”

Beth whips around to see Daryl staring at them, white knuckled, a swirl of hurt and anger on his face.

He meets Beth's eyes. “No. Y'all can't.”

“How can they let low-lifes like that in here?” Marlene mutters, not bothering to keep her voice down. Beth sees the tightening of Daryl's shoulders as he spins around and strides away.

“Daryl, wait!” Beth calls, springing out of her seat. “Thanks a bunch, Marlene,” she says witheringly over her shoulder as she dashes out the front door.

She catches up to him just as he swings his leg over his bike, grabbing onto the shoulder of his jacket. He shrugs her off violently and she stumbles back a few steps.

“The fuck you want now?” he growls.

“Daryl, I didn't mean—“

“Yeah I know what you didn't mean,” he huffs, reaching for his helmet.

Beth feels a spark of anger at his dismissal. “Wanna explain it to me, then?”

Daryl glares at her, helmet clenched tight in his hands. “Pretty sure this just ain't meant to be, princess.”

Beth gapes at him. “So, what? After all this, it's over like that?”

“ _All this?_ ” he asks, shaking his head. “Girl, you need your head checked. We don't have _nothin'_.”

Beth raises her chin, clenching her fists. People in the parking lot are starting to notice them, but she ignores it. “I don't think that's a decision you can make alone.”

“Watch me,” he spits.

“You're being real unfair, here.”

“ _I'm_ bein' unfair?” He rips his helmet off again and hangs it on the handlebars. He leaps off the bike to tower over her and force her back a few steps. “I ain't the spoiled little _bitch_ takin' her pet redneck for a ride.”

“You think that's what this is?”

“Couldn't be anything else!”

“You’re a damn coward then!” They're both shouting now but Beth doesn't even notice. “You think sharing stuff ain't hard for me? You think after all I told you I don't have a right to hurt the same as you?”

He steps deeper into her space, but Beth stands her ground. “Little girl, you don't know what hurt _is_.”

“And you're too scared to live without it.”

They stand in the middle of the busy parking lot, staring at each other defiantly, chests brushing with every deep inhale. Beth feels like the world holds its breath as Daryl searches her face, as his eyes soften—but then he glances over her shoulder and his face goes hard again. “Go back to your own people, princess,” he growls. “I ain't for you.”

This time, Beth doesn't try to stop him from riding off—just stands with her hands hanging limp at her sides, ignoring Marlene's questioning chatter behind her, watching his bike disappear down the highway.

  
  


 


	4. We Could Be Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the diner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much to everyone leaving comments. There have been so many I haven't replied to them all like I want to (I might go through them one day - if you took time to comment you deserve it), but just know that I read and appreciate all of them.
> 
> Thanks as always to milkshakemicrowave for beta'ing, and to khaleesibetch for putting a certain image of Norman's eyes in my head. You saucy minx.

Beth met Jimmy at one of the Greene's many summer picnics. She was two months old, he was three—both nearly indistinguishable balls of squirming baby, suckling at their mother's breasts or crying in their bassinets as the adults tickled and cooed. They would never lose this startling similarity—both grew to adulthood with blond hair and blue eyes, the rooted bearing that comes from working the land their ancestors had tended for hundreds of years. Jimmy was stocky while Beth was slight, deliberate of thought while Beth's flitted through her head like fireflies; but despite these minor differences, they were the same in all the ways that mattered. They learned in the same rooms, lived on the same road, listened to the same music and played the same kind of guitar. It was fate, them ending up together.

Of course, it was also fate that Beth's mama would get sick; would wither and die in the same bed she'd lain in to give life. It was also fate that for all their sameness, Jimmy talked when Beth wanted silence, was quiet when she needed comfort; had a mama who lived, while Beth's had died. It was fate, by the time it happened, the parting of their ways.

But they still live on the same road, still go to the same school, and their encounters have been brief and uncomfortable, this new space between them yawning open and dark where once there had been only flatland.

It's Beth's luck, really, that he chooses to bridge that gap when her own darkness is in flux.

“Hey Beth,” he says quietly. She lifts her forehead from where it had rested on her locker, rolling gratefully against the cool metal. She'd woken that morning with a pounding behind her eyes and a crick in her neck a mile deep, courtesy of the tossing and turning she'd done far into the morning. She'd done everything she could to fall asleep, even counted sheep—but no matter what she tried, she couldn't stop thinking about a certain biker, and the way he'd left her.

She refuses to blame the way she feels today on him; won't give him the power over her mood or her wellbeing. But she can't deny that the static between her ears has taken a cadence similar to his voice, the cotton balls filling her head strangely dark and leather-scented. The glare of the fluorescents and the bubbly chatter of her classmates has done nothing to abate it; only worsened it, in fact, as she longs for the quiet of the clubhouse office, or the dark corners of the bar. This brightness reminds her too much of the diner, too much of the things that bring him pain.

She knows he doesn't owe her anything; that sharing her own heart, as she feels she's done, doesn't mean he needs to give her his, dripping and bloody, in return. But she feels bereft, knowing there are corners of him she still doesn't understand, wandering in his private wilderness.

Jimmy, she knows; Jimmy she knows like a book, to the very core of his cornfed heart.

Not too long ago, that had been a comfort. But now she looks at him and feels nothing but desperate, claustrophobic boredom.

She focuses on a point somewhere between his eyebrows, hoping he doesn't call her on it.

“Hey Jimmy,” she says, smiling as best she can. Between her lack of sleep and natural low energy of late, she doesn't have it in her to give much more. Not to him.

“Are you ok?” he asks, sky blue eyes crinkled with concern. His hand comes up like he wants to rub her back; he diverts it at the last moment, to shift a lock of hair out of his eyes. It's getting long, Beth notes dispassionately, almost long enough to sink her fingers into.

“Just peachy,” she says sunnily, shifting her bag on her shoulder as she turns and begins walking for the exit. Jimmy falls into step.

“You sure? You look a little—“

“Jimmy,” she says, pausing and turning to him. “Can you please cut to the chase? I'm not in the mood for pleasantries.”

“That isn't—I wanted to see how you were doing. We haven't talked in a while.”

“I know,” Beth says pointedly, not bothering to temper her tone. It won't help either of them.

Jimmy colors. “You know—you know how sorry I am, right? For how it was, after. I didn't know what to do—“

“I didn't either.” Beth takes a deep breath. “Look. I'm having a real bad day here. What do you want to say to me?”

Jimmy shifts nervously. “Just—there's a house party going on this weekend, over at Davey Jacobs's. I was wondering if you wanted to go? As friends. I've been reading up, on what to do for people who... you know. Thought it would help.

Beth's expression softens; she touches his arm. “That's real kind of you Jimmy.” She keeps walking, pushing through the school's front doors. “I just don't think I'm up for it—“

She stops walking so suddenly that Jimmy bumps into her back, sending her stumbling forward a step and desperate apologies spilling from his mouth.

For a few moments, she can't be quite sure what she's seeing; has to blink a few times, to clear her eyes of sunshine, to let Jimmy's continued questions peter away unheard.

This is what she sees: Daryl Dixon standing in the parking lot of Senoia High, dressed in a black jean button down and red fingerless gloves, leaning on his monster of a bike and quite clearly waiting for someone.

Waiting for her.

Her breath catches when his gaze falls on her, is stunned, as always, at the intensity of it. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing it for a moment; when it slides from between his teeth, it curves into a small, welcoming smile that makes her heart skitter in her chest.

“Jimmy, I gotta go,” Beth says, interrupting whatever he'd been saying. She can't stop the smile that's wandering across her own face; doesn't give Jimmy's confusion any mind as she drifts forward as if absent from herself, to stand by Daryl Dixon and his bike.

“Hey,” she says, biting her lip against the ridiculous smile still trying to claw its way across her face.

“Hey,” he rumbles.

“You have no idea how weird you look,” she blurts out.

He looks taken aback for a moment, blinking down at her with his mouth open—and then he smiles, chuckling ruefully, tucking his chin so he can look at her through his bangs.

“I guess so,” he says. He jerks his head, glancing between her and the bike. “Wanna get out of here?”

Beth isn't quite sure she heard correctly. “What, me?”

He looks at her strangely. “Yeah, _you_.”

“On a bike. Your bike.”

“'Less you got a pony waiting somewhere, I don't see any other option.”

Beth smiles, shaking her head. “Daddy would kill me if he saw me on a motorcycle.”

Daryl holds the helmet out to her, raises an eyebrow. “So don't tell him.”

Beth stares at the helmet, then back at him. His loose mouth and bright teeth speak of confidence—but there's a tightness around his eyes and shoulders, a tremor in his skin, that shows his terror of her rejection.

She never doubts her decision for a moment.

She grabs the helmet from his hands, feels her heart beat faster at the naked relief on his face. She waits for him to mount, then she swings herself onto the bike behind him, wiggling around awkwardly until she slides into the sweet spot, pressed tightly to his winged back. She peers over his shoulder as he revs the engine, watches his strong fingers flex.

“You need me to do anything?” she asks, unable to keep the nerves from her voice.

“Don't fall off.”

She huffs a short laugh and glances towards the school. They've attracted quite a crowd; Jimmy stands at the head of it, looking between her and Daryl, mouth hanging open.

She gives him a weak little wave as the engine roars to life and they jolt forward; her arms fly around Daryl's waist and a cry tears from her lips. They rip out of the parking lot.

Deep chuckles rumble from Daryl's chest to hers as her fingers claw into his shirt for purchase. She pants into the wind, whole body taut, overwhelmed with the feeling of being on the cusp of flying from the bike. As they go on, however, she feels her muscles relax; lets herself melt into the feeling of him, solid and thick beneath her, the warm smoothness under her fingers where they slip through the gaps in his buttoned shirt. He shivers a little and she withdraws, worried about distracting him; but when his hand lunges off the handlebar to seize hers and drag them back, she lets herself smile and rest her cheek on his back and for the first time all day, feel content.

“Where to?” he hollers over the wind.

A sudden surge of inspiration seizes Beth, and she raises up behind him to shout in his ear, “The next exit, 'bout five miles down.”

He takes her direction, barely slowing down as they rocket from the smooth highway to the pitted asphalt of the road. Beth watches the familiar scenery speed past, caught in the rush of it, heart soaring with the whip of the wind and the pound of his heart, deep and steady even through the thick material of his vest.

He seems to have an uncanny head for distance, for he begins slowing down before she even tells him to; turns easily onto the dirt road she indicates, rumbling through the rising grass and startling a flock of thrashers into flight.

Daryl slows easily as the road peters into non-existence, killing the engine and sitting with her a few moments in silence, looking across the tangled, calf-high grass. A small copse of trees lies about a hundred yards to their right; to their left is a descending hill of rolling farmland, dotted by a barn and ranch house, several miles distant.

They sit like that for several more moments until Beth realizes he's waiting for her to get off first. Flushing, she swings her leg backwards over the bike, landing on shaky thighs as she unstraps the helmet, watching him kick down the kickstand out of the corner of her eye. She feels unaccountably shy as she hands the helmet off; it's only his own body language, hunched and off center, that allows her the confidence to speak.

“I've never done that before,” she says, sounding a little giddy. “Ridden a bike. Horses, but not a bike.”

“I expected so,” he says, turning from her and hanging the helmet off the handlebars. He glances at her, but remains turned away. “How'd you like it?”

“Good. Real good.” Her voice is embarrassingly breathy, and they both flush, glancing away from each other. Beth twists her hands against her stomach, then swings her bag off her shoulder and places it on the seat of the bike. She wanders away a few steps and plops down in the grass, inhaling the sharp smell of the bluestems. She looks at Daryl, sees him still hanging back, unsure.

She pats the grass beside her, smiling as non-threateningly as she can. “Sit with me, Daryl.”

He hesitates only a moment before moving forward and settling himself beside her. She stares at him; his nose wrinkles against a sneeze, and she wants to kiss him into the ground. She realizes they've never been alone, truly alone, like they are now. He could take her, push her into the matted grass and yank her jeans to her ankles and make her scream, _truly_ scream, and no one would hear but the birds and the wind.

But despite her sudden shortness of breath and the distracting tingle between her legs, that isn't what they're here for. At least not yet.

“This is where we had them,” she says, struggling not to flush when he looks at her.

“Had what?”

“The picnics I told you about.”

Daryl goes very, very still, looking at her like a thrush might a cat, unsure if it will meet a batting paw or razored mouth.

“That's my farm down there,” she says, pointing down the hill. “Where I live. Where I grew up. I've never known anything else.” He's looking out at the farm, so tense he's trembling. “I get why you might hate me for it.”

She feels his glance, hears his mumbled, “Don't hate you.” A cloud of dust is rising near the barn; Maggie must be taking one of the horses out.

Beth looks at him. His eyes are on his hands, twisting like vines in his lap. Beth reaches over and places her own palm over them, stilling him; she looks up and he's watching her, intense and close.

“When my mama died,” Beth says quietly, “I didn’t get out of bed for a week. The doctor thought I was in denial, or something; like my body was shutting down so I wouldn’t have to face that she was gone. But it wasn’t that.” Beth swallows and looks at her lap. “I just didn’t… my mama spent the last weeks of her life in her bed. And it was… hard, to see her like that. She couldn’t move much, at the end, and that was the worst—my mama was always moving, always up at dawn to feed the chickens and whip up some waffles. Once that all ended, she didn’t last long. Didn’t see much reason to keep breathing if she wasn’t going to use it, I guess.” Beth feels Daryl’s eyes intent on her face, the ghost of his pinky rub up against hers. “But for that little bit of time, there was something… beautiful. She was sick as anything, but when she saw me she’d smile. It was just her and me and us and that bed, the whole world shrunk down to her and the people she loved. And when she was gone… maybe I wanted to take her place a bit. To find that peace, that stillness, no matter how much it hurt.” Beth pauses, looks into the swaying grass. “The world was just too big without her in it.”

“Why’d you tell me that?” Daryl asks roughly.

Beth shrugs. “I don’t want you to think I brought you up here to make a point or anything. I just want you to know that… the world still feels too big. It’s loud and rough and there’s a lot of days when I don’t want to be in it anymore.” She looks up at him. He’s staring at her like there’s nothing else on earth. “But when I’m with you… I don’t feel better, exactly. But I feel like I could be better.”

“I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, Beth,” he says, so quietly she has to lean in to hear. She tightens her hold on his hands. “This, you... it's just me being someone I ain't.”

“How do you know it ain't you if you haven't tried it yet?”

Daryl shakes his head, wordless. He looks down at their hands that have somehow gotten all tangled up in each other. Beth flips one over gently to rub at his palm. She traces a finger along his lifeline, makes him twitch.

“Why'd you go into that bathroom with me?” he asks.

“I wanted you,” Beth says, a low hum in her own chest. He opens his mouth but she cuts him short, shaking her head. “You don't know what that means. For so long, I haven't wanted anything, except...” She pauses with her finger on his pulse point. He blinks at her, long and slow. “And you wanted it too. You were there. Present. With me. You told me the truth.”

“I did?”

“Yeah.” Beth leans her head on his shoulder, smiles a little as she feels him melt under her. “'Bout your mama, how you saw me. You trusted me with that.”

“The way I treated you...”

“Was just what I needed.” Beth feels him turn to look at her, and she colors. “I never had it like that before,” she says quietly. “I didn't know sex could be... healing. Another way of talking.” She looks up at his face, so close to hers. Her voice hardens. “Marlene doesn't know anything, you hear? Not about you, not about me.” She tightens her hold on his hand. “You said you'd be my piece of rough, right? Well that's what it is—being here, living, it's _rough_. And you can give up and run away all you want, but eventually you don’t get to do that anymore.” Beth puts her other hand on his face; her heart speeds up when he doesn't hesitate to lean into it. “I want to _be here_ , Daryl. I wanna be here with _you_.”

“I'm gonna hurt you.”

“I've hurt myself enough,” Beth says pressing on his face. “There ain't nothing worse you could do to me.”

Daryl snorts. “You'd be surprised.”

Beth smiles wryly. “Maybe. But I'd get through it.”

A small smile tugs at Daryl’s lips and before Beth can blink he’s pressing his mouth to hers, open and sweet as he draws an arm around her shoulders. For all it is brief and nowhere near the intensity of the kisses they’ve already shared, it leaves Beth dizzy; she can only close her eyes as he nuzzles into her neck, lipping past her stray strands of hair.

“We should go,” he rumbles. Beth opens her eyes and looks down the hill. It seems that Maggie did take a horse out; she’s close enough that Beth can see the sun glint off the brim of her white hat.

“Alright,” Beth says, accepting his hand to pull her up. “Where to?”

Daryl hesitates; glances at their still joined hands.

“It’s my choice, this time,” he says.


	5. Playing Jenga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl takes Beth to his apartment.
> 
> PLEASE READ AUTHOR'S NOTE FIRST

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***IMPORTANT IMPORTANT IMPORTANT***
> 
> If you're following me on Tumblr, you've heard this already, but for everyone else: I decided that putting a sex scene in the previous chapter messed up the pacing I'm going for, so I took it out. Please read the end of chapter four before moving onto this one so you know what is still included. Sorry for the confusion, but I really think that this version serves the story better.

Beth clung to Daryl’s back all the tighter as the evening chill rolled in, sending shivers down her spine that had nothing to do with his proximity. She feels his closeness even more acutely as they linger outside Daryl's apartment: A nondescript door in a nondescript building, squatting just off the highway several miles from the farm. His shoulders fill the narrow hallway, but he still looks small.

“Sure you wanna come in?” he asks, half turned towards her, head down and wary. “I ain't asking you for nothing, you know.“

“I want to come in,” Beth says, clenching her hands to hide the way they tremble. Despite the bathroom, despite the words they've shared that seem sprung from a bottomless well inside of her, the whole affair hasn't felt real until this moment. Standing outside a near stranger's door, ready to walk in, ready to give all the action calls for.

And Beth is ready. Astoundingly so. Sex with Daryl doesn't scare her. She sees enough of him to know he's more frightened of her than she is of him; that despite the muscles that run under his shirt and the work-hewn hands that can circle her bicep entire, he views her acres of skin with the trepidation of a virgin. She wonders how close he comes to it: That he can stand there in his leather and smoke and tremble at the thought of little old her.

No, sex doesn't scare her. It's the adultness of this step, the seriousness of his regard as they stand in the cramped hallway; the decision she needs to make, void of hormones and ecstasy, to walk through that door.

Despite her words, he seems to still be waiting for her permission, so she steps forward and curls her hand around his, looks into his eyes, and they turn the lock together.

She steps into his space and looks around with eager eyes. She isn't sure entirely what she expected, but she deflates a little at what she gets: A small living area with a one person table, a couch and TV, a kitchen sectioned off by a chair-less bar. There is no decoration, nothing of personality—a half-full pack of smokes sits on one arm of the couch while a stack of magazines teeters on the other. He closes the door and walks past her, taking great pains to avoid brushing her body. She peers past him to see the interior of his fridge: A six-pack of beer and a water pitcher, an item wrapped in foil. He glances back at her and sees her watching, and closes the door quickly.

“I ain't exactly decked out for visitors,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck as she steps up to the couch to thumb through his magazines: Cineaste and the Times, a few old issues of Outdoor Life and Field and Stream. She pictures him in the morning, bleary eyed over insta-brew coffee and dry cereal, tapping the table with a fingernail as he reads about violence in the Sudan and oil prices in the midwest. It warms her cheeks a bit, the intimacy he's affording her.

But he's still standing there, nervous and small, and she knows who has to be the adult here.

She smiles at him and plops down on the couch, testing the old springs with a few bounces. “You lived here long?” she asks, drawing the stack into her lap to look at it more closely.

“Few months,” he says, drifting towards the couch to stand behind her; she can hear him picking at the fabric by her ear. “Lived with Merle before then, a little house he rented with club money.” She hears the twisted lip in his voice. “Weren't long before he trashed the place and we lost the deposit. He's been living out of the clubhouse since then.”

“But you got this place?” Beth says, flipping past a retrospective on Joan Bennett.

“Had some money saved. Don't dope myself through it like Merle does.” There's a pause, and she feels a hesitant hand settle on her head. Beth sucks in a breath, but forces herself to slouch back, comfortable, at ease. She closes her eyes as his hand travels round her skull, thumb rubbing at her temple as he cups the back of her head. He moves closer to the couch and she can feel the ghost of his body behind her.

“He sounds hard to live with,” Beth says, biting her lip against the moan that wants to roll past her lips at his light touch.

Daryl snorts and ghosts his knuckles down her cheek, landing on her jaw and rubbing it gently. “Y'ain't kidding. He didn't take too kindly to me getting my own place, neither.”

“It's good for you, though,” Beth says, arching her neck back to look at him. His hand slides under her chin. “It's good to have your own place. Something that's yours.”

Daryl shrugs, withdrawing his hand to stuff it along with the other in his pockets. Beth turns around on the couch, pretzeling her legs and looking up at him.

“Does it get lonely?”

“Sometimes,” he mumbles, looking at her crossed ankles. “Listen, uh, I got water if you want—“

“I'm fine,” Beth says. She brings up a hand and hooks it around his waist, rubbing his hip soothingly. He looks at her through his hair, swaying backwards and forwards.

“We can watch a movie,” he says, low in his chest. Beth's heartbeat quickens.

“That what you really want?”

“Maybe. What do you want?”

She doesn't hesitate. “I want to kiss you.”

Daryl smirks. “Don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me sober.” He rests his fingers, just the tips, on her wrist, curls them around the back of her hand. She brings up her other hand to grip his other hip, drag him closer to her. She glances up at him, then slowly leans forward, inching the shirt up with her fingers, and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his abdomen.

He's across the room by the time she opens her eyes, rigid as a board, looking at her like a panicked horse.

“Daryl—“

“Maybe you should leave.”

He leans against the pillar at the end of bar, looking at his feet and closing his eyes tightly. Beth stands and walks towards him on quiet feet.

“Daryl,” she says quietly. “Look at me.”

He lifts his chin slowly, peers at her through mostly-closed eyes. His jaw clenches tight as she puts a hand on his waist, pulls their lower bodies together. He's there, as she knew he would be, hard against her hip, wanting her. He shifts his stance, but doesn't pull away.

“It goes both ways, you know,” she says. “We don’t gotta do anything you don't want to do.”

“I want—“ he says, and stops, biting his lip. She doesn't imagine the angry tears popping up behind his rapidly blinking lids. “You oughta go, Beth.”

“I asked you for a kiss,” she says, leaning closer. “Can I get that? I'll leave then, I swear.”

“I dunno...”

“It's been a long time since that bathroom,” Beth says, settling her other hand on his waist. “I wanna remember what you taste like.”

Daryl closes his eyes and swallows. “Jesus, Beth.”

“Just one?”

He looks down at her, uncertainty in every line of his body—then he nods; a little slow, a little jerky, but a nod nonetheless.

Beth smiles, walking her hands to the small of his back as she stands on tiptoe and presses her lips to his.

He's rigid and unsure and it reminds her of their first kiss, alone in the hall off a busy bar. But Beth isn't the girl she was even those few days ago—Daryl is her guy, her man, hard through his jeans, hard for her, and she feels no shame moving against him, drawing a groan from deep in his throat.

“That ain't fair,” he growls as she nips at his lower lip.

“Ain't here to play fair, Dixon,” she says, smirking. He still seems unsure, and she falls back to the balls of her feet, lets the smile slide from her face. “I mean it, Daryl. Tell me to go and I'll go. I mean, you'd have to gimme a lift home,” she feels triumphant when his mouth quirks at that, “but I'd go. It’s just that I’d really, really, _really_ rather stay.”

Daryl sighs, a great, chest-heaving breath, and ends it with his arms wrapped long and boneless around her, hard forearms resting heavy on her shoulders. “You trying to take advantage of me in my own place, Greene?”

Beth grins, rising up to kiss his jaw. “That's exactly what I'm doing.” She slides her hands up his chest, being sure to drag across his nipples, making him hiss. “Is it working?”

“Horny little thing,” he mutters, leaning forward to hover his forehead over hers, let her taste his breath.

“Never said I wasn't.”

They're both breathing shallowly now, pressed against each other against the pillar in the white washed room of his transient apartment. The traffic hums from outside as Daryl slides his hands down her shoulder-blades, down her back, down her waist to end in cups over her ass, dragging her closer and letting his hips jerk like they want to. Beth brings her own hands further around his waist, dipping under his shirt and rubbing the small of his back. He tenses a little, then relaxes as she stands on tiptoe to mouth at his jaw, trailing across his scruff to the V that emerges under his ear, sucking gently where it makes him gasp.

“Still want me to leave?” she murmurs, scratching him lightly with her nails.

She gasps aloud when one of his hands reaches further between her legs, pressing her jeans into her slit. She looks at him and his eyes are dark.

He leans forward and kisses her, long and deep and hot, exploring her mouth in a way he never did in the bathroom, never had time for with the urgency and the rush. There is urgency here, too, there has to be—the press of him between her legs is sending pulses up and down Beth's spine, racing through her body like greyhounds as his tongue slides against hers, licking back to her molars and along the backs of her teeth. When he pulls away they both are panting and their hips are pressed together so tightly she can't imagine it isn't painful.

He presses his cheek against her, sliding forward to reach her ear, making her legs tremble at the rough scratch of his scruff against her.

“I wanna fuck you,” he growls, and her knees damn near buckle.

“Yeah?” she asks, embarrassingly close to a whimper.

“Yeah.”

“You got a bed?”

He nods, scratching her with his scruff again, then pulls his hand from between her legs and spins her around, gives her a small push towards a door she didn't notice.

“Go on, then,” he says, rubbing himself against her ass until she stumbles forward, limbs trembling with anticipation.

The bedroom is just as unadorned as the front room, but cozier; dark brown walls lit by a single small window, a full sized mattress sitting sans frame in the center of the wall. A pack of smokes, a lighter, an ashtray, and an alarm clock sit where the bedside table would be, and a pile of DVDs the size of a small child sits in the far corner; another door sits slightly open, showing a small bathroom. The bed is done up in plain grey sheets, a blue blanket kicked to the foot of it. There's a pack of condoms almost hidden by the cigarettes, and it makes her heart beat faster.

Beth is breathing heavily as he closes the door behind them and presses himself against her, dragging his hands across her stomach and twisting her shirt between them.

“Wanna fuck you,” he murmurs again, and it hits her harder, somehow, coming from behind, like the open air before her sits harder on her clit than even the sight of him would. She breathes in deeply as a hand wanders up to curl around her breast, and he kisses her neck, hot and heavy. He takes his other hand to grip hers and move it to the button of her jeans, prompting her to undo them.

He gives her another little push and she stumbles forward. She glances behind her to see his eyes eating her up; running up and down her body like a tree he wants to climb, stopping on the flush of skin between her shirt and jeans. He glances up at her, and somewhere deep in all that dominance he's begging.

Without a word, Beth turns back around and shimmies her jeans and panties down her legs, tossing them, her shoes, socks, and her shirt aside. His hand on her back stops her from undoing her bra; she closes her eyes as his sure hands work at the eyelets, unsnapping them one at a time until the garment can slide down her arms, leaving her naked and panting before him. She closes her eyes and tries to control her breathing as he puts both his hands on her shoulder-blades and digs in with his thumbs, giving her an impromptu massage that almost makes her pitch forward.

“You know your pressure points,” she says in a voice that isn't supposed to be a whisper, hoarse and needy as he chuckles and pushes up against her, running his hands down her body to her front. He thumbs at her hips for a moment, tip-toeing his fingers to frame her mons and tease the hair there as he nips at her shoulder. Her hands rest on his wrists as softly as they can, biding her time before she can beg him. She knows he'd like that, saw it in his eyes before he turned her around the last time—but she isn't doing that until she can get something in return.

Instead, she takes one hand and sneaks it behind her to grip him through his jeans.

Daryl hisses out through his teeth as she runs her hand along his length, swirling her fingertips with the lightest pressure around the head before moving up to struggle with the button of his jeans. He grabs her wrist and draws it forward, placing it between her legs and making her moan at the contact with her clit.

“Keep yerself busy,” he growls, his accent stronger already as she closes her eyes and strokes up and down her slit before settling against her clit and circling it beneath the the pad of her index finger. She's so close already she has to pull her hand away when his zipper snicks behind her, clenching her thighs at the heat it sparks through her. When he steps up against her again, she can feel his bare dick smack against her ass, the buttons of his open shirt rasp on her skin.

“Y'ready?” he asks, pushing her forward again with flat of his palm until she goes down on hands and knees onto the bed, crawling up to the head of it, waving her ass in the air like a fucking flag and she doesn't know what's gotten into her when she glances coyly over her shoulder, presenting herself to him, spreading her knees and sinking down as his dick twitches beneath the flaps of his open shirt.

“You're gonna kill me, Greene,” he says hoarsely, taking his dick in a shaking hand and stroking himself a few times before squeezing, hunching over and biting his lip like he almost—and Beth, again, feels that rush of power, the electricity that brings 200-pounds of muscle-bound biker to his knees.

He's on his knees now, crawling up the bed towards her and draping himself across her back as he reaches past to snag a condom. She's still on her hands and knees, waiting, missing and anticipating the press of him when his tongue suddenly drags across her slit, making her collapse onto her elbows.

“Daryl!” she gasps out as he grabs her hip in a bruising grip, spreading her cheeks with his thumb and delving inside her, tongue sloppy and unpracticed but enthused in the extreme as she arches against it, nearly bending her spine in half as she begs with her skin and her scent to go further, go deeper, nuzzle your nose in her wet hot heat and blow and blow—

—and for all her keening she isn't prepared when he heaves her hips up in the air to suck her soul out through her cunt.

Beth comes with a short hot cry, grinding desperately back against him and the bristles of his chin until she collapses to her knees, thighs shaking with the release as she, once again, hears the foil pack rip behind her.

“We're gonna do it like this again?” she asks in a shaking voice, squeaking when he grabs her hips and drags her roughly down the bed, scraping her knees against she sheets. His finger delves inside her and she moans, gripping the sheets as the liquid slides down her leg and he lines himself up between her legs, the head of his dick twitching against her over-sensitized clit.

“You weren't complaining the last time,” he grunts, gripping her hip as he jerks himself up and into her, drawing a low moan from both their throats.

This position is amazing, hotter, deeper than he could reach against the door as he draws out and slides back in, a leisurely pace that makes the muscles in Beth's legs jerk as she keeps herself from slamming back against him, letting him control the ride for a little longer. She can't help circling her hips, though; and at the noise he makes, half a moan, half a whimper, she does it again, grinning ferally at the way his hands spasm, drawing her back with a jerk and slamming in and out until she can't control the sounds coming from her mouth, his name and God's and syllables taught in tongues as he surges forward to cover her completely, bear her into the bed and snap his hips against her answering cunt.

“Fuck Beth, fuck,” he groans, supporting them on one hand and snaking the other beneath her to grab at a breast, force her mouth open and slip his fingers inside until she's biting him just to keep quiet, sucking in her moan against his digits that still taste like her, like the musk that she feels tracking down her leg as it’s squeezed out from between them with a squelch—and she can't hold it in anymore, this pressure inside her, and even before his fingers reach her clit she's clamping down on his dick and coming with a shrieking moan.

It's only a few more strokes before he spends himself inside her with a long drawn out groan, collapsing atop her body and panting into her hair, still half-contained in her ponytail.

Beth waits until the welcome but crushing weight of him gets to be too much before nudging him with her elbow. He rolls over, landing on his back with a grunt and a bounce; she slithers her own way onto her back, staring at the ceiling pitted like a hotel's and closing her eyes. She opens them when she feels a sheet settle over her; she watches as he pulls the blanket up the bed, tuck it in around them before scootching over and taking her in his arms, burying his face in her shoulder and grumbling happily.

“Why'd we wait so long to do that again?” he mumbles into her skin, kissing her neck sleepily. Beth laughs, short and sweet, running her hand up and down the shirt over his arm where it rests across her.

“I would'a done it after the diner—brought hotel money and everything. But someone had a tantrum.”

“Someone's a dick,” he mumbles, tugging her closer. Beth's a little hot under the covers, and the liquid still seeping out from between her legs is getting uncomfortable; but Daryl seems so cozy, so at peace, she can't bring herself to shove him off. She settles for peeking one of her feet out from beneath the blanket, dangling it over the edge of the mattress to brush the floor.

Daryl noses once more into the crook of her neck before drawing back with a groan, flopping against the pillow and rubbing at his forehead. Beth folds her hands over her stomach as she takes in his bare chest—the strong bar of collarbone, the wide-spaced nipples and fuzzy tummy. The word “Norma” is tattooed over his heart, and it tugs at her lips, wanting to ask about it.

“Mind if I have a smoke?” he asks, peeking at her under his hand.

Beth smiles and reaches off the bed to grab the packet and lighter. “Only if you let me try some.”

When she turns back to him, both eyebrows are raised. “Didn't know you smoked.”

“I don't. That's why I want to try it.” She watches as he lights up, sucking the smoke into his lunges with a sigh, before holding it out towards her. Beth pulls herself into a sitting position, wincing a little at the twinge between her legs. The blanket sits unconcernedly around her waist as she takes the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, squinting at it.

“I just... suck at it?” she asks, glancing at him.

“Yeah,” he says distractedly. He's staring at her breasts, and she can't help smirking through her blush.

“Might wanna watch my face in case I go blue,” she says; he looks up at her guiltily, and she grins. He rolls his eyes before settling in, hand behind his head, watching as she takes a drag of the cigarette.

He's fast to grab the smoke out of her fingers when she starts coughing, doubling over with a hand to her mouth.

“God, that's disgusting,” she wheezes, eyes watering. He chuckles deep in his throat as he takes his own, practiced drag, holding it in his lungs before exhaling.

He sees her watching him, and beckons with the cigarette, moving up higher on the pillow.

“C'mmere,” he says.

Hesitating, Beth drapes herself across him as he takes another pull, then turns towards her, pulling on the ends of her hair until she sees his intent and leans over him, slotting her mouth over his.

The air is hot and thick as it pools slowly inside her mouth. She lowers on his sinking chest even as her own expands, taking in him and the smoke and the taste of herself on his tongue. By the time she pulls away, her eyes are watering, but her clit is pulsing again.

“Better?” he asks, deep in his chest, thrumming.

Beth takes the cigarette from his hand, leaning over to stub it out in the ashtray and turning back to him. Without a word, she takes hold of his hand, brings it beneath the blanket, and sinks it between her legs.

Daryl's eyes are heavy-lidded as Beth rolls her shoulders, biting her lip against the sheer goodness of his fingers rolling over her clit. She's still slippery and he moves with ease, dragging up and down and back and forth as he watches her face, every tiny twitch and clamp of her jaw as he sets his rhythm, stroking and circling and sinking inside, stretching her walls.

It only takes a few minutes for Beth to come again, long and shuddery and good. She sighs as he pulls his fingers out of her, wiping them on his shirt and accepting her body as it slots against him, head rolling onto his shoulder and hand onto his chest. She blinks sleepily across his expanse of chest, rubbing softly at his nipple, and then the tattoo above his heart.

“Who's Norma?” she asks, curling a leg over his and snuggling in closer.

“My mama,” he says. His voice is deep and sex-heavy, but there was no hesitation before he spoke. “Got it the day I turned 18. Merle called it a pussy move. I dunno, maybe it was.”

“I like it,” Beth says, tracing the letters with her fingertips. “You really loved her, huh.”

Daryl shrugs, trailing his fingers distractedly across her shoulder. “Did the best she could.” Daryl's free hand comes up to take hers; their fingers lace together over his chest, over his heart. “There was one time—I must'a been eight or nine, real young—it was good day for her. Pop was sleepin' off a bender at some old lady's place, Merle'd been going to school for once; we even had some pancake mix that I made for her.” Beth keeps her breaths quiet and unobtrusive, barely stirring the tiny hairs on his shoulder. “I was playin' out in the center of the park—building mudpies or somethin', some nasty shit—she'd actually come outta the trailer for once, was sittin' and fanning herself in a lawn chair.” Daryl chuckles softly. “See, you wouldn't know it now, but I was a real pretty kid.”

Beth grins, nosing his chin. “I can believe it.”

“Stop.” Daryl presses his cheek against her hair. “Well, the crowd we ran with, pretty ain't no good thing. Some kids down the road came over, started roughing me up. Usually Merle'd deal with 'em, but this was round the time he started takin' smack, and he weren't around too often.” Beth rubs her thumb against his. “They were smackin' me around, callin' me junk, trailer trash, even though they all were too. I'd decided just to take the beating and sic Merle on them later when my mama comes up with the fire 'a God in her eyes and wavin' a damn fire poker.” Daryl snorts and shakes his head. “Hell knows where she got a fuckin' fire poker. She clubbed the biggest one over the head, got him bleedin', and the others scattered pretty quick. Brought me home and fussed over me, used alcohol for somethin' besides drinking for once.” She feels Daryl glance at her. “I don't want ya to think I was some pansy ass, you know; I could'a taken them.”

Beth giggles. “I know.” She presses down on the tattoo, kisses his shoulder. “Sounds like something my mama might've done. Except she'd go to each of their houses and talk their parents down too.”

“Don't know how many of them had parents. Least parents weren't lit up the ass.”

“Thanks for tellin' me that, Daryl,” Beth says quietly.

“Ain't nothin',” Daryl grumbles, shrugging against her. “Just a story.”

“Still. I don't want you to feel like you have'ta tell me stuff, just cause I tell you.”

Daryl shrugs again. “Felt right, 's all.”

“Good.” Beth gently untangles her hand from his to drift it down to his belly. They both watch as she strokes at the soft rises and falls there.

She feels him hesitate, and then he asks, “Can I try somethin'?”

“A sex something?”

Daryl snorts out through his nose. “Maybe.”

Beth smiles, then pulls herself away from him, settling on her back and lacing her hands across her stomach. “Go ahead, then.”

Daryl grins and leans over her, taking hold of the blanket and sheet and dragging it slowly down her body. Beth feels her flush go all the way down to the tops of her breasts as he looks her over; even in the dimness of the room, it's the first chance he's had to really look at her. For her part, she takes the chance to glance down at where his hips disappear beneath the blanket, search the shadows there. She's about to pull the blanket down herself when he suddenly pulls himself up, moving smoothly to lie between her legs. Beth's breath catches when he pulls her legs over his shoulders; she remembers the frantic way his mouth had moved over her only minutes before; from the smoldering look in his smokey eyes, she knows this will last much, much longer.

He's just lowering his tongue to wrap around her clit when the bedroom door bangs open.

 

 


	6. Good Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn why Daryl and Beth were so rudely interrupted.

“Saddle up, l'il bro, Martinez's gotten us a doozer—“ Merle says at the top of his lungs, striding into the room. He doesn't notice their predicament until he's reached the foot of the bed, at which time he stands with his arms in mid-gesticulation and mouth hanging open, slowly turning up at the corners.

Daryl, for his part, matches the slammed door by slamming up into Beth, throwing his body over hers and driving the air from her lungs like a sledgehammer.

“Do you mind, asshole?” Daryl shouts over his shoulder, his hair whipping into Beth's mouth. She sputters and shoves at his shoulders.

“Well well weeeeell, lookit what we got here. Darylina's finally getting some pussy for a change. Where'd you pick this one up, she wants your sugar-sweet ass?”

“Get the fuck out, Merle,” Daryl growls, glancing down at Beth and shifting a little off of her, biting his lip apologetically.

“Just congratulating you bro, learn to take a compliment...” He trails off as Daryl moves enough that Beth can meet his eyes, peeping out over Daryl's shoulder. His face runs through several emotions as he recognizes her and Beth fights to keep her gaze level.

“Come out here a minute, Daryl, we got things ta hash out,” Merle says, spinning on his heel and finally exiting the room. He doesn't bother to close the door; Daryl leaps off Beth and slams it shut.

He stands there against the door for a few moments, breathing heavily and looking at his feet. Beth struggles into a sitting position, pulling the sheet back up to cover her chest. Daryl glances at the sheet, then at her, then down at himself, bare but for his unbuttoned shirt. He flushes a deep red and shuffles to his dresser, yanking on a pair of jeans.

“Daryl–” The look he shoots her stops her short: Wary, closed, like a trapped animal's. Nothing at all like the man who'd just had his head between her legs.

He leaves without another word, shutting the door with a click.

Beth dresses slowly, giving them the time to finish their conversation and relishing the now-familiar jelly in her limbs that comes from a good fuck. She rolls the word around her mouth a few times, testing the way it feels in that exact phrase with those so specific connotations. She never thought she'd be the girl to get a good fuck, let alone give it, and she's fairly sure she had—the curl of his mouth was enough as he snuggled against her shoulder; the touch of his hands was enough as he held her close. Beth thinks about the woman she is, to give him that look in his eyes; she thinks about the kind of man Merle Dixon is, to take it away.

It takes her a few minutes to get antsy, and another to decide to emerge. She pushes the door open slowly so as not to startle, entering into their hushed conversation.

“—I'd leave you to get it on with jailbait—“

“She ain't fucking jailbait, Merle!”

“—but this is the biggest deal we've had in our lives! Think how good you could treat that girl with all them thousands—“ Merle cuts off abruptly when he sees her standing in the doorway. Daryl swings around to look at her. His fists are clenched and his back is hunched, folded in on himself like a miserable piece of origami.

“Get back inside,” Daryl says hoarsely, not quite meeting her gaze.

“I think I'm gonna go,” Beth says, bending down to grab her bag from the couch.

Daryl's eyes flick to hers for a moment, then away. “I'll take ya.”

“That's alright, I can walk.”

He sure is looking at her now. “The hell you can; it'll be dark in an hour!”

“I walk fast.”

“Beth—“ Daryl glances at Merle, slouched easily against the wall, watching them with eyes that are far too sharp. Daryl steps forward and takes her arm, surprisingly gentle, and steers her to the corner of the room. He backs her in, once again shielding her with his body.

“Look, you don't gotta be stubborn about this—“

“Can you look at me, please, when you're talking to me?”

Daryl stops short, looking up in surprise. There's such shame in his expression that it sinks in her gut like a stone.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He bites his lip. “Gimme a minute to get rid of him. You don't have'ta go.”

“I should. It's getting late. Maggie's gonna wonder where I got to.”

“A'right, just... we ok?”

Beth can't help the incredulous smile that bursts onto her face. She shakes her head and rises on tiptoe, pressing her lips to his non-responsive mouth.

“Yes, Daryl,” she says quietly when she comes back down. “We're ok.”

Daryl's looking at her and it steals her breath away, the earnestness, the begging in his eyes. Begging her to be true, begging himself to believe her. Begging her not to go, she thinks, but he'd never say that out loud.

Merle clears his throat loudly and Daryl steps away, flexing his hands and sticking them in his pockets. Beth looks Merle Dixon squarely on, raising her chin as whatever he was about to say dies on his lips. He returns her stare in turn, looking her over, noting the strong square of her shoulders, the knot of her jaw. Daryl stands between them, looking back and forth nervously.

“Beth, right?” Merle finally asks.

“Yeah,” Beth says.

He's silent for a few moments longer, then claps his hands together, making Beth and Daryl jump. The seriousness is gone from his gaze. “Well, now, seein's how we don't have the time to get to know each other, why don't you come on down to the club barbeque on Saturday?”

“Merle, I don't think—“

“Now come on, Darylina, let your girl live a little. Meet the gang. Know a bit more about us than the size of your willy.” Both Beth and Daryl color. “What do ya say, hon?”

Beth glances at Daryl. He's still cagey, avoiding her gaze, but when he meets it, it's with something of a question.

“I'll be there,” Beth says.

* * *

 In the end, Beth relents, letting Daryl take her home. The ride back to the farm is silent and strenuous; Beth can feel the muscles in Daryl's back pulled into knotted fists, ones that she wishes she could soothe with her hands and tongue. She tries as best she can to roll her cheek against him, press her lips fleetingly to the piece of spine that pops out over his vest; anything to reassure him, calm him down. As it is, he leans heavily on the throttle, and before she knows it they've pulled to a stop on the dirt path that twists down to the farm, far enough away that the twilit trees shield them from view.

Beth dismounts and hands him the helmet. He's gone back to not looking at her again. That won't do at all.

“Daryl,” she says. He rolls the helmet around in his hands. “I had a real nice time today. Real nice.”

Daryl snorts quietly. “Till Merle fucking ruined it.”

“He didn't ruin it,” Beth says, stepping closer. She feathers a touch across the back of Daryl's hand, relaxing a little when he turns into her. “I was gonna meet him sooner or later, we kept this up. I wanted to meet him.” Daryl grimaces. “Don't do that,” she says, curling her hand around his. “He's your brother.”

Daryl shrugs, glancing at her. “Still. Shouldn't'a happened like that.”

Beth snorts. “That's for sure.” She feels the blush climbing her cheeks, she remembers what they were doing when they were interrupted. From the heaviness in his eyes, she's sure he's thinking the same. “Do you not want me to come to the party? I'd understand if you didn’t want anyone to know about me—“

Daryl looks up sharply. “Where you get that idea?”

Beth shrugs. “Didn't seem like you wanted me around Merle, 's all.”

Daryl shakes his head, flabbergasted. “That ain't it at all, Beth.” He takes a step closer. “I don't want him around _you_. You ain't... he don't know how to act with girls like you. How to treat 'em right.”

“You said the same thing about yourself.”

Daryl grimaces. “Yeah, but I know Merle. He's my brother, and I put up with that—but you don't need it.”

“I'll decide for myself what I need.” Beth steps closer and wraps herself around Daryl, inhaling deeply the now-familiar scent of him. Butterflies erupt in her belly when he doesn't hesitate to bring his own arms around her, slung low and tight on her back. She can feel his stirring length against her stomach, but doesn't mention it; just pulls back and presses her lips to his, firm and sweet.

“You really wanna come along on Saturday, huh?” Daryl asks against her mouth, massaging her hips through her jeans.

“I do,” Beth says, rubbing her hands up and down his biceps, relishing the slide of shirt over skin, remembering the way he felt poised over her. She shivers. Daryl looks at her questioningly, and she takes a deep breath. “If I work it out with my dad, you think I could... stay the night, after?”

Daryl raises an eyebrow. “You gonna tell him where you are?”

“I'll think of something.”

He looks at her a moment, eyes flicking over her face, before breaking into a right-out grin. “I was wrong about you,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

Daryl just keeps smiling, slides his hands into her back pockets, flexes them against her ass. Beth feels those butterflies flit through her stomach again, but for an altogether different reason. The way he's looking at her—like she's kind, like she's beautiful, like he's _happy_ —stirs something deep within her as he leans forward to capture her mouth, rolling his tongue against her lips until she parts them with a sigh.

They don't pull on each other, or grind themselves together. Their heads duck and weave but their hands stay still, content to hold, content to touch, content with the wet heat of their mouths and the sense of being close. A light breeze plays with Beth's hair as one of Daryl's hands strays from her ass, skims up her side until she shivers and it settles against the curve of her skull, holding her still so he can kiss her thoroughly, wet and deep and long.

By the time they pull apart they're both breathing heavily, great shuddering breaths that raise their shoulders in a delicate dance as Daryl rests his forehead against Beth's, flutters the hairs beneath her nose with the breeze from his mouth.

“What were you wrong about?” Beth murmurs, fingers skimming where his deltoid meets his bicep, fondling the crease there.

Daryl grins, rakishly. “You ain't a good girl at all.”

Beth smiles, rolls her her forehead against his. “Never said I was.” She pulls back a little, looks at him. “Does that bother you?”

“Nah,” he says. “It's kinda hot.”

“So before, that sex we were havin'—you didn't think I was hot then?”

“Were always hot. Just a different kind.”

Beth giggles and slings her arms around his neck, pecks his nose, his mouth. “You're a real sweetheart, Daryl Dixon.”

“Don't let it get around,” he mutters, nipping at her lips. He glances behind her, and sighs, drawing back a little. “You ought'a get back.”

Beth pouts. “You tryin' to get rid of me?”

“Something like that.” Daryl kisses her again, firm and sound, before pulling away and settling the helmet on his head. “You want me to pick you up, this Saturday?”

“I'll walk over,” Beth says. “It's only a few miles; it'll still be light out.”

“A'right.” Daryl settles onto his bike and Beth resists the urge to run over and kiss him again. “See you then, Greene.”

Beth grins until her face hurts. “See you then, Dixon.”

* * *

 Beth's hopes of slipping in quietly are dashed when she enters the door into a tense standoff in the kitchen. Maggie and their daddy are standing at opposite ends of the island, Maggie looking chastened but strong-chinned, Hershel bullish and foreboding. They both look up when Beth enters, Maggie with relief, Hershel with increased frustration.

“What's going on?” Beth asks, trying to surreptitiously pat down her hair so it doesn't look quite so tousled.

“And where were _you_ , young lady?” he asks. Beth tries not to swallow.

“I hung out with Emma after school,” Beth says. “I forgot to call you, I'm sorry.”

“You know I want to know where you are,” Hershel says.

“I know Daddy,” Beth says, crossing her fingers behind her back, “It won't happen again.” Hershel sighs mightily and looks at his feet; Maggie continues twitching. “So... what's up?” Beth asks.

“It seems that your sister has been seeing someone without telling me about it.”

“I told you Daddy, it ain't serious.”

Hershel shakes his head. Neither of the Greene girls are very good liars; it’s only Hershel’s distraction that’s gotten Beth this far.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better about you going off with some boy I don't know?”

“There are a lot of boys you don't know, Dad.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

Beth attempts to inch out of the kitchen, but Hershel catches her before she can escape.

“Did you know about this, Bethy?”

Beth glances towards Maggie, who's shaking her head sharply; but it's Beth's own guilty conscience, as well as her daddy's use of her nickname, that wins out.

“Yeah,” she says. “I didn't know who it was though!” she says quickly. “Could'a been Jimmy, for all I know.”

“What concerns me,” Hershel says, leaning across the counter, “is that you felt you couldn't tell me. Why is that, Margaret?”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “After what happened with Tommy, Dad, really?”

Hershel's face turns thunderous. “I won't be having some boy touching my girls on my property!”

Beth bites her lip hard.

“Dad, I'm 24,” Maggie says strongly, glaring right back. “I ain't a girl anymore.”

“You were Beth's age then,” Hershel says, looking at Beth too quickly to notice her red cheeks. Hershel sighs and rubs his face. He suddenly looks much older. “I remember the kind of man I was at your age. I don't want just anyone around my daughters.”

“He isn't just anyone, Dad,” Maggie says, leaning on the counter. She swallows. “I love him. And I ain't giving him up. Not even for you.”

Hershel searches her face. He sighs heavily. “You said he works at the Prison Yard?”

“He's a mechanic, not a biker,” Maggie says quickly. “He has a degree and everything. He's just workin' there till he has the money to move to Atlanta.”

“You don't go there to see him, do you?”

“Just to the restaurant.”

“You won't be going back. I don't want you around that sort.”

“What's wrong with bikers?”

Maggie and Hershel look at Beth, surprised to be reminded she's still in the rooms. She steps back against the wall, wincing.

“Just wondering.”

“They've been in this town a long time,” Hershel says darkly. “In my day, Old Will Dixon was the reason parents locked up their daughters. Charming as a snake about to bite you. His sons aren't any better.”

“But it's just a bike club. They ride around, and talk, and stuff.”

Hershel smiles a little, shaking his head indulgently. “It's never _just_ a bike club, Beth. _Just_ a bike club wouldn't'a gotten Will Dixon shot in the head and strung up on electrical wires.” Beth blinks, clenching suddenly numb hands. He looks carefully between Maggie and Beth. “You two are my girls. You and this farm are the only things left in the world that are precious to me. Those men don't know love like that.” He looks at Maggie. “You say this boy of yours is a good man.”

Maggie nods emphatically. “He is, Dad.”

Hershel rubs his face again, sighs. “You're a smart woman, Maggie, and I trust you.” He looks up at her. “Invite him over for Sunday dinner. Then we'll see.”

Maggie lets out a breath of air, smiling. She rounds the island and hugs him. “Thanks, Dad. I promise you'll like him.”

“I hope so,” he says. He pulls back and puts his hands on her cheeks. He shakes his head. “I forget what it is to be young. I'm glad I have you around to remind me.” He looks at Beth, chuckles a little. “Go on and wash up, I'll get some dinner together.”

“But Dad, it's my turn—“

Hershel waves Maggie off. “You'll want to save your energy for Sunday. The happier I am the better off you'll be.”

Maggie smiles and hugs him again, kissing his cheek. “I love you Dad.”

“I love you too.” He smiles softly and looks at Beth, still in the corner. “There's nothing you could do to stop me loving you.”

Beth forces herself to return his smile. Her heart is still pounding.

* * *

 “I ain't gonna forget you telling Daddy about knowing Glenn, you know.”

Beth looks up from where she's sprawled on her stomach on her bed, writing in her diary—or attempting to, at least. She can't stop thinking about what her daddy said, about the Dixons; it sits uneasily with her, with Daryl's silence on the subject of his father, the thousands Merle mentioned, the way they've talked so much about her life and so little about his. Not that she expects it, or is angry with him for withholding—it's more in trepidation, that for all the good she’s learned of him there might be some bad too.

“I'm sorry, Maggie,” Beth says, closing her book on the sketches and curlycues she'd made of his name. “He put me on the spot, it just sorta came out.”

“You're lucky I didn't say anything about _you_.” Maggie shuts the door and perches at the head of the bed. Beth sits up and pretzels her legs, facing her, heart speeding up. “I never asked you how that date went.”

Beth grimaces. “Pretty horribly, actually.” Maggie looks outraged, but Beth cuts her off. “It was my fault. I said some stuff and I wasn't thinking, and Marlene showed up... it was just bad. We talked it over. We're good now.” Beth blushes, looks down. “Real good, actually.”

After a few silent moments, she glances up. Maggie is looking at her sharply.

“What?”

“Bethany Ann Greene, did you have sex with this boy?”

Beth's blush intensifies, but she can't help the small smile that pulls at her lips. “Maybe.”

When Maggie's face doesn't change, except to deepen into a frown, Beth begins to panic. “We used protection.”

“How long have you known him?”

“A few months,” Beth lies.

“You met him at school?”

“No. He's, uh, older.”

“How much older, Beth.”

“How did Daddy find out about Glenn, anyway?”

“Heard me on the phone. Don't deflect, Bethy.”

“I don't see how it's any of your business,” Beth says, fiddling with her diary, reminding herself to lock it up tight when Maggie leaves.

“You stood there while Daddy grilled me about datin' someone just out of college. I'm in grad school. You're eighteen. I think it's a whole hecka _lot_ of my business.”

“You said all that matters is if he's good to me.”

“I also said if he touched you I'd break his fingers, remember?”

“I thought you were exaggerating.”

“You've known me for eighteen years, Beth. I don't exaggerate. Not about that.” Maggie shakes her head. “Does he know about—“

“Of course he knows,” Beth snaps. “He _has_ seen me naked, Maggie.”

Maggie blushes, but her glare doesn't abate. “And he knows how to deal with... it?”

Beth rears back. “Deal with what? Maggie, what?”

“How to take care of you!”

“I don't need _taking care of_. Not in that way. The other way he manages just fine.” Maggie blushes again and has the grace to look away. Beth sighs harshly and leans forward. “I'm with him because he _doesn't_ take care of me. Do you get that?”

“Not really.”

Beth takes Maggie's hand, forces her to meet her eyes. “Three months ago, I tried to kill myself. That's _part of me_. It ain't all of it, but that's me. Treatin' it like some monster under the bed ain't gonna change that.” She squeezes Maggie's fingers. “He _gets_ it, Maggie. Way more than you do.” She looks a little hurt, but this time Beth doesn't let that affect her. “And you know _why_ he gets it? He ain't some little boy like Jimmy. He's done stuff, and things've been done to him, and it doesn't matter how old he is cause he's just as lonely as I am.”

Maggie brings her other hand up to grip their entwined digits. “You have me, Beth. You know you always have me.”

“I know Mags. I love you, and I know you love me—but that ain't enough.”

“So, what? He's the guy that's gonna save you?”

“He can't save me. No one can.” Beth swallows against the tears rising in her eyes. “He can be with me, and I can be with him, and maybe one day we'll look back and realize we've saved each other. But for right now, he makes me happy. I didn't know I could _be_ happy anymore, Maggie. He makes all the shitty stuff about living feel not so shitty for a little bit. It's exactly what you said to Daddy, Mags. I ain't giving that up. Not even for you.”

Maggie is quiet for a bit, searching her face. She's still frowning, but her eyes slowly relax. She sighs heavily and shakes her head. “I'm guessin' you don't want me to meet him.”

“Not yet. He's a little skittish.”

Maggie snorts. “Gotcha. Skittish old men who have sex with teenagers, that's the kinda guy my baby sis goes for.” Beth opens her mouth to rebut, but Maggie's smile stops her. She still looks exasperated, but not so angry. “I feel like we ought'a switch guys. We're going against type, here.”

“You won't tell Daddy?”

“No, I won't tell Daddy. But you have to be here for Sunday dinner, alright?”

Beth smiles with relief. “Of course I will. Can't let you and Glenn face Daddy alone.”

Maggie smiles back at her, and they sit in silence for a bit, looking at the bedspread. Beth glances up at her.

“Ya think you could do me a favor?”

“Yeah?”

“Back me up when I say I'm staying at Emma's Saturday night.”

Maggie blinks, slow and owlish. “You're kidding me.”

Beth giggles, cheeks reddening. “Nope.”

“Have you even _talked_ to Emma about all this?”

“Not really?”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “You're hopeless.” She shakes her head. “Alright, fine. I'll lie for you. Just do one thing for me.”

Beth smiles giddily. “Anything.”

Maggie smirks and leans forward, tugging down the neckline of Beth’s shirt. “Invest in some sweaters. Heavy ones. Daddy might be old, but he sure knows what a hickey looks like.”


	7. The Princess and the Criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The barbecue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for being so patient! I know this chapter is short, but the next one should be a bit longer (and has sex!!) with plenty of development. I'm headed out to work on it as soon as this posts, so expect it within the week. For now, enjoy this chapter!

The barbecue's in full swing by the time Beth arrives, out of breath and a little sweaty from her walk. A heavy cloud of smoke is rising from the Prison Yard's chimney, and the crowd of people has spilled out into the parking lot. Groups are congregated around picnic tables heaped with hot dogs and burgers that are being consumed almost faster than they're coming out. Most of the men wear vests similar to Daryl's and most of the women are clad in little more than spangled underwear—but the tone is one of raucous merriment, of celebrating the moment while they have it. Beth stands at the edge of the crowd for a few moments, just observing. She doesn't jump when large hands slip around her middle.

“Hey,” he murmurs into her ear, kissing the hollow beneath it. Beth can't stop the brilliant smile that spreads across her face as she slides her hands over his, stroking his knuckles with her thumb.

“Hey yourself,” she says, arching her head back so he can kiss her. His hands clench a little in the fabric of her white peasant blouse as he slips his tongue into her mouth, breathing in her sigh. When he pulls away Beth leans back against his chest, relishing the feel of him tall and hard behind her.

“How long since I seen you again?” he asks into her hair.

“Two days.”

He presses a kiss to her bare shoulder. “Too long, then.”

Beth flushes with pleasure as his hands slip from her stomach to her hips, turning her gently. He isn't dressed any differently than she's come to expect, except for maybe a bit more shine in the leather of his vest. But something about him seems lighter than normal; his limbs looser, mouth softer as he smiles down at her. Her heart skips in her chest as he takes her in, gaze sliding from her bright red lipstick to her dark jeans and spit-shined boots.

“Is this alright? Gotta say, I feel overdressed,” Beth says, glancing back at the picnic tables. Her eye catches on Merle, sprawled across a whole bench with a buxom redhead in his lap, licking something off her breasts while Mitch hoots. Similar scenes of debauchery are occurring at every other table.

Beth turns back to Daryl with an eyebrow raised.

“I like it,” he mumbles, coloring and thumbing at her blouse. “'S classy.”

Beth snorts. “You could'a told me to dress different.”

Daryl shrugs, glancing at her. “Wouldn't be you then.” Her breath catches at the look he gives her, something stroking and intimate, even as Iron Maiden blares in the background. The moment is broken when someone claps Beth hard on the shoulder, making her stumble.

“Hey, _chiquita_!” Martinez slurs. He ignores Daryl's warning growls, throwing an arm around her shoulders and dragging her into his cloud of body odor and cheap beer. “Dixon didn't drive you off yet, huh?”

“Apparently not,” Beth says, smirking up at Daryl to let him know she's ok; he relaxes a little, but still stays on edge.

“Watch your hands,” he grumbles, sticking his own in his pockets and slouching as Martinez grins widely.

“'Ey, _cabron_ , calm your tits; ain't every day we get a new old lady.”

“Beth ain't an old lady.”

“What is she then?”

Daryl scowls and shoves at Martinez's shoulder; he lets go of Beth, raising his hands in surrender.

“A'right, a'right, I'm goin'. Come say hi to Marina later, yeah?”

“Fine. Bye.”

They watch Martinez wander off towards Pete where he's making out with a pretty brunette. Beth laughs when he throws his arms around both of them, squeezing them together as they break apart and yell at him.

“A friendly drunk, huh?”

“Too friendly,” Daryl grumbles, dragging Beth into his side as she giggles. He nudges her hip to get her walking towards the tables.

“And what kinda drunk are you, Daryl Dixon?”

He smirks down at her. “You tryin' to get me inebriated, Greene?”

Beth slings an arm around his lower back, rubbing the skin of his hip to feel the tendons moving under his skin.

“I never had a drink, you know.”

Daryl stops short at that. She looks up at him peering down at her.

“Never?”

“No.” Beth feels the good mood start to leech out of her slowly. She lets go of Daryl and looks down at her feet. “My dad, you know. He didn't want me'n Maggie to end up like him.” Beth looks around, and snorts. “He'd die if he saw me somewhere like this.”

“You wanna go?”

“No.” Beth takes Daryl's hand and squeezes. “Just don't know if tonight's the night I get smashed.”

Daryl smiles, squeezing her hand back and swinging it a little. “Good. Want you sober for later.”

“Later...” At Daryl's deepening smirk, Beth realizes his meaning and her cheeks light on fire. “My daddy doesn't want me doing that either.”

“What'd you tell him you were doin' tonight?”

“At a friend's. Again. I need a better cover story, I never spent so much time with friends before.”

Daryl looks at her through his bangs. “We gonna keep this up long enough?”

Beth frowns and lets go of his hand. “Well, yeah. Why wouldn't we?”

Daryl shrugs and tugs at her wrist to get her walking again, but she doesn't move.

“Daryl?”

“Just don't want to take nothin' for granted, is all.”

“Hey. I'm here, ain't I?”

A small smile breaks through Daryl's gloom. “Yeah. Y'are.”

Beth smiles and presses a kiss to his chin. “What's an old lady, anyway?”

Daryl shrugs, toying with the ends of her hair. “A man's woman. Takes care of his kids, home and shit. Runs his ass, really, but doesn't let him know it.”

“Sounds like me to me.”

Daryl tugs on her hair good-naturedly. “Yeah, but they're part of the club. That ain't gonna be you.”

“Why not?”

Daryl looks at her seriously. “That ain't gonna be you,” he repeats. He glances down and back up, and his gaze softens. “I ain't gonna ruin you, Beth. Not you.”

Beth furrows her brow and opens her mouth to reply when Daryl stiffens and a hand shoots over Beth's shoulder to clap him on the back.

“Hey, Darylina and friend, ya made it!” Merle's familiar scratchy voice crows. Beth lets go of Daryl and turns around, and stifles a laugh; the redhead clearly put on too much lipstick this morning, cause now it's smeared all over Merle's mouth. He carries it well, though, grinning easily and looking Beth over, letting out a low whistle. “Damn, boy, you really have traded up. Looks good in clothes too.” Beth anticipates Daryl's menacing step forward and shoots her hand out to stop him, even as her own cheeks pink.

“Thanks, Merle,” Beth says, showing her teeth. Daryl shifts from foot to foot at her side.

“Boy, what do you think you're doin', having a girl at this fine shindig without a drink in her hand?” Daryl opens his mouth, but Merle talks over him. “Gotta know how to entertain them, little bro.”

Daryl looks between Merle and Beth and sighs roughly. “What do ya want?”

“A coke?”

“A'right.” Daryl steps past her into his brother's space. “You watch out for her, ya hear? Keep her away from Mitch.”

“Think I can handle blondie for a minute,” Merle says, grinning toothily. He looks over Daryl's shoulder at Beth. “Bet she can handle herself, too.”

Daryl grunts, glancing between them one more time before stomping off towards the coolers.

Once Daryl's out of sight, Merle's whole demeanor changes; his drink-slouched shoulders straighten and his eyes go sharp, turning to look her over calculatingly. He's clearly not as drunk as he was acting. Beth shifts on her feet but lifts her chin challengingly at his scrutiny.

“So. Beth Greene, huh?

“Merle Dixon, huh?”

Merle snorts, flapping his arms out and settling back with tilted shoulders. “I'm guessin' you're the reason he stayed late at the bar that night, huh?” Merle snorts, shaking his head. “Needed a piss, my ass.”

“Well. We _were_ in the bathroom.”

Merle blinks at her a few moments, then throws his head back, hooting with laughter.

“Whoo-ee, this boy keeps on surprising me.” He looks back at her, grin like a knife blade. “Gave it to you in the loo and you're attached at the hip now, huh?”

“It's more than that.”

“Is it, now?” Merle's eyes go sharp again, and Beth fights to keep from taking a step back.

She can see what Maggie means, now, about bikers. Even including that first night, Daryl's never scared her, not really; whatever fear she might have felt she knows now came from arousal, and the strangeness of that arousal—the heat she felt with just his eyes on her skin.

She feels nothing like that with Merle. His heat is the oppressive kind, the kind that squeezes you from eyeballs to entrails until every pore feels like it's bleeding stomach acid.

She remembers what her daddy said, about the brothers' father, the way he met his end; she wonders how many people Merle's ended the same way.

“It is,” Beth says, swallowing her trepidation. “You got a reason to think differently?”

“I dunno, girlie, you tell me. Little bitty like you. Goin' places. Got a nice sister, with a nice boyfriend. Bit overbearing? Can't imagine anything happening to her little sis? Gonna pinch the balls off any bastard who tries? Daddy's girl too, I bet. Got damn hayseed sproutin' out your ears.” He glances her up and down. “Clean cut girl like you in a place like this, with a man like my brother. Can't help it if you get a man thinking.”

“You gonna get to a point any time soon?”

“Patience, chickadee. May not look like it to you, but I love my little bro. Before this club it was just us for a long, long time. Tried to raise him up right, but the kid's soft, bless him; got a bleedin' heart the size of Georgia.” Merle crosses his arms across his chest. “Always liked girls like you. Tried to keep it from me, but I knew he weren't like me. I could never stomach you sweet little Bambis; liked my bitches bitches. You're just Darylina's type, though. Juuust his type.”

“So, what? You think I'm using him?”

“You tell me, honey buns.”

She looks past Merle. Daryl's gotten stopped by a pair of girls who could be sisters, both skin and bone and hanging off each other like they've drunk a keg each. One of them grabs hold of his arm and he flinches back, glancing up at Beth. When he sees her looking, he grimaces. One of the girls steps closer.

She looks back at Merle. His gaze doesn't waver as it skips across her face, and she wonders what it is in their genes that makes her feel like these brothers can see inside her skin.

“He's keepin' you safe, I bet,” Merle says quietly. “He hasn't told you nothing, and he won't tell you nothing. But one day he's gonna need you for something your lily-white ass don't know how to handle. You sure you're up for that?”

Beth opens her mouth to reply, then stops herself. She knows there's nothing she can say to change Merle's mind about her, not now; not when she's clean and young in her white peasant blouse, not when grit from the barbeque is already darkening it towards grey. And how could she even begin to explain what she and Daryl have? The way that his hands on her feel like stitches sewing up the holes her mother's passing left; how he can breathe on her neck or touch her wrist and she feels safer than she has in her whole life? How could she explain to Merle, what she'd do for his brother? What she has with Daryl, it's—

It starts a roaring deep in her chest, a riot in her heart. It's not something she's ready to name.

“For him? Yeah.”

It takes Daryl stumbling back into them for Merle's gaze to break away.

The smile that slides across her face isn't forced when he doesn't hesitate to spoon into her, plastering himself to her side and rubbing his face briefly against the top of her head. Her arm easily finds its way around his waist, hooking onto his opposite hip. Beth glances past Merle, catching the dirty looks the girls are sending her. Even through her hammering heart, she feels triumphant.

When Daryl straightens up and the silence stretches, she feels a little tension jump back into Daryl's bones.

“Y'alright here?”

“Peachy keen,” Merle says, smiling his salacious smile. Beth can feel Daryl looking down at her, but she's not sure she can meet his eyes at the moment.

“Beth?”

“Just getting' to know each other a bit, us being new siblings and all—“

Someone calls Merle's name from across the lot, and both brothers' heads whip around, bodies tensing. Beth follows their gaze and sees a trio of strangers have arrived at the edge of the road. They wear the same type of clothing as the Inmates, but something in their demeanor tells Beth they don't belong here. The party doesn't pause, but Beth sees how some of the men are suddenly much less drunk; notices women reaching for their bags. Daryl's arm grows so tight around Beth she has to say his name to get him to loosen his hold.

“Sorry,” he mutters, exchanging a look with his brother.

“Gotta steal your man for a second here, doll,” Merle says, saying something to Daryl through his eyes. Beth cranes her neck back and sees Daryl nod, his mouth a grim line.

“Daryl, what's—“

“I'll tell ya later,” he says. He pulls his arm from around her reluctantly. Beth suddenly wishes she'd brought a jacket.

“Daryl, wait!”

He stops where he's gotten a few steps away from her, pivoting slowly. Even with the adrenaline pumping through her veins, Beth holds his gaze firm. He glances back at a waiting Merle before walking up to her, pitching his voice low, so Merle can't hear.

“Listen, I just gotta deal with this quick. I'll be right back.”

“But Daryl, are you sure—“

“Beth.” He brings his hands up to her shoulders, resting them on her heavily. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, glancing down to her mouth.

Without a word he steps in close and against her will Beth feels that familiar thrum roar to life, the singing in her pulse whenever he's near. He looks at her for several moments longer, then in a single ducking move leans in to kiss her.

Whatever this kiss is, it's too close for this wide open space, far too close, and Beth feels her whole body bend and flush with it as his hands slide to her lower back and he tugs her in, opening her mouth with his mouth and curling inside like he belongs there. Beth's hands fist in the sides of his vest. She struggles to stay on her feet as the strokes of his tongue turn her legs to jelly. The sound fades out, the smoke fades out, and for those few moments it's him and her, her and him, come together like the bathroom all over again.

By the time he's done, Beth feels thoroughly kissed and faint with the beat of his heart that she feels against her knuckles.

She blinks up at him dumbly. He has the gall to look embarrassed, ducking his head so his forelock brushes her nose. Beth slides her hands further towards his back, feeling the clammy heat of his biceps against her arms.

“I'll be right back,” he whispers. He looks up at her, pleadingly, and something in his eyes makes the world warp.

“Ok,” she says.

He looks at her a moment longer, biting his lip; then he sucks in a deep breath, and follows his brother.

Beth stands paralyzed as she watches the two groups meet up; so caught up in the rush of Daryl's kiss, in the questions she's asking— _what_ would _she do for him?_ —that it takes several moments for her to register the person behind her speaking her name.


	8. What You Would Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the party.

It's almost routine, the way Beth feels entering his apartment; she has no qualms in stepping out of her shoes and dropping onto the couch, watching Daryl through sleepy eyes as he moves into the kitchen, shoving the literal bag of burgers Dale foisted on them into the fridge.

The party had been on its way to winding down when they left, slipping away on Daryl's motorcycle as the rest of the club reached lethargic levels of drunk. Under Merle's cajoling and Daryl's grudging encouragement, she had tried a few sips of beer before they left; made a face that had Merle in tears and Daryl pressing a kiss to her forehead, grinning like he held a treasure, like he was glad to know her. That feeling swirled in her stomach with more force than any alcohol, cresting like an ocean under her skin until she was near bursting with it, and she had to turn away before the men read it plain on her face. She has a feeling that Merle noticed, though; saw the considering look he shot her as she waved goodbye from the back of Daryl's motorcycle.

Beth noticed things too. She noticed the look that passed between Daryl and his brother before he handed Beth the helmet; noticed the rough kindness of his hands when he insisted on buckling it for her, forceful like he was using it to bind the two of them together; like he gripped her arms against his stomach at each stoplight; like he held her hand on the way to his door, firm and warm in his grasp. Like he was holding her to him, holding her against something. Like something had shifted.

Beth pushes the musings from her head when Daryl emerges from around the bar of the kitchen, smiling shyly as he hands her a glass of water, which she downs with gratitude. His hand flutters over her head before he settles next to her, collapsing with a gust of air. Beth puts her glass on the coffee table and snuggles under his outstretched arm, fitting like a puzzle piece. Daryl leans his cheek against her head, and Beth sighs in contentment.

“Y'alright, then?” he asks, voice a rumble beneath the baseline of his heart, thumping against her cheek.

“Yeah,” she says, looking up at him with a smile. “I had fun. I'm glad I went.”

Daryl thumbs the material of her blouse. “Sorry 'bout your shirt.”

Beth shrugs, looking down at the sauce and smoke stained fabric. “Was my fault for wearing white to a barbecue.” She throws an arm across his stomach, squeezing gently. “Should take a leaf from your book and wear black all the time.”

Beth feels his crooked smile against her head. “You look too good in white for all that.”

“Thought you'd say I look good in anything.”

“Look best in nothing,” Daryl says, squeezing her until she giggles, a bubbly feeling rising to her head like sips of soda. She has to clench her tummy muscles to stop the laughter from overflowing; holds him tighter as she tries to reign herself in.

 _That beer really got to me,_ she thinks.

But it isn't the beer. She knows it isn't. Knows it's just the man next to her, sitting solid and strong, trailing fingers up and down her arm. Knows it's the smell of him, smoky and heavy like just-tanned hide, sweet like the first stretch after a rest. Knows it's his nose in her hair, the rumble in his chest. Knows it's a reaction against everything that could make them fall apart.

“Glenn was there,” Beth says. His fingers pause. Some of the looseness leaves his limbs.

“He saw you?”

“Yeah,” Beth says.

_“Beth?”_

_She turns slowly, hoping she'd heard the word wrong, hoping it isn't a voice she recognizes—but it is: Her sister's boyfriend, standing furrow-browed behind her, looking between her and the angel wings across the yard._

_“Glenn,” she says, mind whirring. “What are you doing here?”_

_“I work here,” he says._

_“Is Maggie with you?”_

_“No.”_

_“Ok.”_ He must have just gotten here, _she thinks. There's no way she wouldn't have noticed him otherwise; he stands out just as much as she must, in his bright t-shirt and baseball cap._

_Beth looks behind her. Daryl, Merle, Mitch, and Martinez stand arrayed across from the other group. She is reminded of a football defensive line, the way their shoulders brush and square, blocking the intruders from the party. Beth can see Daryl's hands twitching, even from here; Mitch is thumbing what she suddenly realizes is a gun holster on his hip. One of the other group looks up and locks eyes with Beth, and she suddenly realizes she doesn't want to be having this conversation here._

_“C'mon,” she says, taking Glenn's arm and leading him away from the standoff, to the corner of the building. She looks around to be sure no one else is about to jump out at her. She turns to Glenn, biting her lip. “So.”_

_“You were kissing Daryl,” he blurts out. His cheeks color a bit, but his bewildered expression doesn't change._

_“Yeah.”_

_“You were kissing him a_ lot.”

 _“I know.” Beth wills the flush away from her own face. She isn't embarrassed to be caught; she_ isn't _. But she can't help imagining what that kiss must have looked like from the outside, when the very thought of it continues to bend her backwards. “We've been doing that.”_

_“You have. Ok.” Glenn exhales a big breath, looking at the ground, gathering himself. “Does, uh, Maggie know?”_

_“No,” Beth says, “and I want to keep it that way.”_

_Glenn shakes his head desperately. “I'm shit at keeping secrets Beth, you can't ask me—“_

_“I'm asking you,” Beth says, stepping into his space, forcing him back against the building. He looks panicked. “Please don't tell her, Glenn,” Beth pleads. “She won't understand.”_

_“Listen, Beth,” he says, glancing back towards the parking lot, “this really, really isn't any of my business. And if I'm going to get killed by a Greene sister I'd rather it just be one of them. But... are you sure you know what you're doing?”_

_“You're right,” Beth says. “It isn't any of your business.”_

_“Beth, I'm serious,” he says. She sees a gulp work its way down his throat. “Do you know what this club_ does _?”_

Just a bike club wouldn't'a gotten Will Dixon shot in the head and strung up on electrical wires.

_“It's just a group of friends,” Beth says weakly._

_Glenn shakes his head. “Listen, the Inmates aren't exactly cuddly—I mean, maybe Daryl is,” Beth shoots Glenn a flat look, and he blanches, “—or he isn't. Whatever. But whatever business they have, they keep it out of Senoia. But that doesn't mean they're legit.” Glenn bites his lip, shakes his head again. “Do you know who those guys are? The ones Daryl and Merle are talking to?”_

_Beth tries to contain the sinking in her gut. “Another club?”_

_Glenn nods. “The Governor's crew. If they're in town, serious shit is about to go down.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“They run guns,” Glenn says bluntly. “Drugs. Women. The Inmates don’t do all of it, but they do enough that it threatens The Governor’s business. I was working on Pete’s truck the other day and I heard them talking about it—Merle made a deal with another club that The Governor isn’t too happy with. Last time that happened, people died. Not just club members, old ladies too. A kid. Will Dixon got it from his own gun.”_

Strung up on electrical wires.

_“Why?”_

_“That’s what happens when someone crosses this guy. I’m not saying Will Dixon was a great loss—I don't think he was a great dad at the best of times, let alone president, and Merle’s done better for this club than he ever did—but The Governor being here means he fucked up. He fucked up a lot.” Glenn still looks nervous, but he takes a step forward. “Like I said, it isn't any of my business. Keep doing you. And for a guy who bathes maybe once a week, Daryl is pretty decent.” He puts his hand on Beth's shoulder, now; his touch is light, but it weighs on her. “But there's stuff going on here that you don't know how to deal with. People are going to get hurt. I don't want to see anything happen to Maggie's baby sister.”_

_“I'm not a baby,” Beth says quietly._

_“I know.” Glenn shakes his head. He squeezes her shoulder again. “But you aren't old enough for this shit, either.”_

“What'd he say?”

Beth shrugs, burrowing closer to Daryl's warmth, heart pounding. “Promised not to tell, at least.”

After a moment, Daryl resumes running his fingers up and down her arm. Beth holds him tight, squeezing her eyes shut, feeling him whole.

“Would it be so bad?” Daryl asks, several minutes later, voice small enough that Beth pulls back to see him clearly.

“What do you mean?”

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, through his bangs. “Just wonderin', you know. If Maggie knew about me. Would it be so bad?”

Beth pushes the hair out of Daryl's eyes, mouth quirking when it falls right back into place.

“Probably not,” she says slowly. “It would take her a while to understand. And I'd have to untell a lot of lies, which I ain't proud of. But... you could come to the house.” Beth smiles, tickling his chin. “Sneak into my bed.” Daryl's mouth quirks to match hers. Beth nuzzles against his cheek. “Daddy might be angry, but they couldn't stop me seeing you.” She leans her forehead against his temple, tangling her hands with his. “I just... I don't know if I'm ready for it. If we're ready.”

“Why?”

Beth shrugs. Daryl pushes at her gently. She pulls back, and he looks at her.

_“Why?”_

For once, she's the one who wants to hide.

“It still... doesn't feel real, really. It's like I fell asleep the night we met and... no. It's like I woke up, and any little gust will knock me back out: Daddy finding out about you, me sliding back into everything I thought I’d gotten past, you being...” Beth stops, glances at him, shakes her head. Her voice is small, too small. “I don't want to lose you.”

Daryl gathers her hands to his chest; squeezes, so she looks up; places them against his heart.

“'M here, Beth,” he says. Beth looks at him, swallows what could have been a sob.

“And you better do everything you can to keep it that way, mister,” she says, trying to lighten the moment; all it does, though, is tilt Daryl's head, squint his eyes as he looks at her, figuring her out. Beth wets her lips, gut clenching a little when he glances towards the movement. She feels the familiar licks of lust begin to spike under her skin; but she has something to say, first. “What did those men want? At the party?”

Daryl is quiet for so long, Beth resigns herself to not being answered; he doesn't look at her when he speaks.

“There's a deal going down,” Daryl says slowly. “Tomorrow night. Merle owes them money for some shit, we gotta square it.”

“Is it dangerous?”

Daryl glances at her, starts playing with her fingers. “Always is.” He looks her in the eye, fiercely, and it takes her aback. “They ain't getting to you. You don't have to worry.”

Beth smiles softly. “I know. You'll protect me.” Daryl's cheeks darken, and Beth leans forward to kiss them, one at a time. She pulls back just far enough that she can see him; makes sure she can still feel his breath on her lips. “Who's protecting you, though?”

Daryl shrugs. “Merle'll look after me. Always has.”

“But he left you.” Beth doesn't mean to say it, and Daryl pulls back a hair's breadth when she does; but he doesn't seem to take offense; just laces his fingers with hers against their thighs.

“He's here now. And you're here.” He presses their hands to his heart again; he smirks, and she can feel it in the air between them. “Never felt safer.”

Beth swallows, leaning her forehead against Daryl's and closing her eyes. “I don't want to lose you,” she says again.

Daryl rubs her wrist, the marked one. Traces the scar with a slightly shaking finger. Beth opens her eyes, and he's looking at her lips. Her grip goes tighter.

“I'm here,” he says, again, and kisses her.

It's different, this time. Every kiss between them is different, better and more electric than the last—but this is _different_ —closer, closer than skin and bone. And Beth is terrified.

She pulls away from him, shaking her head. “Daryl...”

“Shh,” he says softly, stroking her hair. She feels lulled by the sensation; leans further into him as he pets her, strokes her from root to tip. “You wanna watch a movie? Or are you tired?”

Beth's mouth quirks. “It's only eleven.”

Daryl smirks. “Bedtime for an old man like me.”

Beth full-on grins. “Bedtime for a kid like me.”

“You’re a lot of stuff, Beth, but you ain’t no kid.”

Beth leans into his hand. She can feel his pulse racing in his thumb, and it makes her bolder.

“Want me to prove it?” she asks.

He grins, showing his canines. “Fuck yeah,” he growls, and kisses her again.

This is better—this is known, the stroking heat that his tongue stokes inside her, fanning the embers in the pit of her stomach as he slides a hand under her shirt, flattens her against the couch back by the press on her flat stomach. He tastes like burger and beer, a combination she'd loathed earlier in the night but now craves, wants to roll in the sense because entwined with that taste is the taste of him—so familiar, so quotidian, by now; and even if their kisses could be counted on two pairs of hands, she feels like they've reached a now where she knows them. By the groan in the root of his throat, the way he cups her head and fists her hair, she thinks he knows it too.

“Beth,” he growls, pulling away from her mouth to kiss down her neck, pull the blouse aside to suck at the junction with her shoulder. Beth lets her head roll back, caught easily by the curve of his hand as he pulls her closer, hand sliding from her stomach to her back, teasing the small of it. After a few moments Beth pushes him back with a hand on his chest.

“Let's go to the bedroom,” she says, in a voice she still isn't used to hearing from her own lips, throaty and sensual and adult. Daryl seems to like it; he leans forward to capture her in another searing kiss before tugging her up, leading her by the hand to his bedroom.

She giggles when he locks the door the moment they enter; the giggle morphs into a moan as he pushes her gently back against it to suck on her neck, running his hands up her sides under her shirt. He kisses her lips, her nose, her chin, then goes to his knees and buries his face in her stomach, licking and nipping and delving his tongue into her belly button. Beth cradles his head in her hands, threading his hair through her fingers, watching his closed eyes and chapped lips as he moves across her skin. His large hands grip the backs of her thighs, pulling her forward so he can rub his scruff across her stomach, sigh, hold her close.

When he looks up at her, her breath hitches at the new light burning in his eyes, intense, focused, devouring. She feels every blink as a throb in her clit and has to put her hand on his shoulder to stay upright.

“Let's get your clothes off,” he says quietly.

Beth bites her lip and nods, waiting for him to stand smoothly before reaching for the hem of her shirt and tugging it off. Daryl growls at the acres of fresh skin.

“You weren't wearing a bra this whole time?”

Beth smiles, fighting through the embarrassment of him watching her. “If you didn't notice, clearly I didn't need it.”

He makes a sound in his throat and raises a hand to cup her breast, running the barest touch across her nipple and making her shiver, back and forth, back and forth until her body can't stop tremoring between passes. He looks at her, lids heavy, as he begins to roll the bud beneath his thumb.

“We got all night, Beth,” he says, almost in wonderment. She shivers, and he smiles, stepping closer and wrapping her in his body heat. “Tell me what you want.”

“Clothes off,” she says, sliding her hands up his stomach beneath his shirt. He hisses softly at her cool hands, and Beth smiles, relishing the feeling of his abdomen rippling under her touch. Daryl pulls his hand away from her breast to cup her face with both and kiss her, long, sweet, lingering. His hands trail down her arms as they kiss, finally landing on her hips before sliding to the front of her jeans, flipping open the button and gliding his fingers inside. He stops at what he finds and pulls back, frowning.

Beth smiles and pushes him back a step, leaning down to shimmy out of her jeans, kick them aside.

Daryl bares his teeth as he looks her over, licking his lips and reaching forward to trace the outline of her aqua lace panties.

“Maggie got them for me a year ago, but I never wore them,” Beth says, breath hitching as Daryl's fingers linger on her hipbone before dipping lower, following the crease of her thigh. “Always worried they'd rip,” Beth says, leaning her head back against the door. Daryl's finger skitters across her mons, just his nails against the fabric. Beth shivers violently. “You like them?”

“Get on the bed,” Daryl says, so low it's barely a rumble in his chest. His eyes flick to hers, dangerous in their intensity, and she quickly complies, bare feet whispering across the carpet until she's reached the mattress; slides to the head of it and looks at him through heavy lidded eyes, heart pounding.

“Spread your legs,” he says.

“You gotta take your clothes off too,” Beth says. She smirks, rocking her closed knees back and forth. “Only fair.”

Daryl pauses before bringing his hands to the buttons on his shirt, the zip on his jeans, undoing his clothing economically and quickly. Beth watches hungrily as inch after tan inch is revealed. Like last time, he leaves his shirt fluttering open, framing his broad chest and the dick standing proudly between his legs as he lowers himself to his knees and crawls towards her, eyes dark in the dim light. Beth breathes out shakily as he lays gentle hands on her knees, spreads her legs wide.

He looks at the wet stain on her panties with a small smile, pressing the middle of it with his index finger and making her jerk. He massages her in small circles, working back towards her entrance and up again towards her clit, soaking the fabric. With his other hand he thumbs the lace under her hipbone.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, applying more pressure to her entrance, making her whimper. He glances up at her at the sound. “Can I taste you?”

Beth's thighs jerk in response and she nods vigorously. Daryl smirks and takes his hands from her. He reaches past her to build her a nest of pillows, raised high enough that she can watch. She leans back, heart pounding, spreading her legs at his barest touch, waiting for him. He settles between her thighs with a grunt, guiding her legs over his shoulders as he buries his face against her panties, inhaling deeply.

“Hmmm,” he says, the rumble of his breath sending shivers through Beth's bones. He spreads his hands across her hips, holding her down, and leans forward to lip at the cotton crotch, tongue darting out to taste the wet fabric as Beth moans. Moving carefully, he takes the fabric between her lips in his teeth, pulling it back a few inches and releasing, smirking at her keen when it smacks against her clit. He does it again, then again, and again until she's biting her lip against begging.

“You're being awful quiet, Beth,” Daryl says, giving her underwear a few more licks.

“Maybe you oughta do a better job,” Beth says through gritted teeth. He bites gently on one of her lips, making her gasp, before his hands finally, finally move to the band on her panties. He kisses her belly button as he pulls down her underwear; then they're off and she's bare, spread for him, muscles twitching beneath his gaze.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs, sliding his index finger up and down her clitoral hood, using her own skin to generate friction. Beth bites her lip again as he teases her, massaging up and down her inner lips, avoiding the two spots she needs his touch most.

“Daryl,” she whispers, fisting the sheets as he ghosts his finger over her entrance.

“Gotta say it, girl,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to her mons, tickling her clit with his scruff and making her jump. He keeps kissing her, lipping down to her outer lips and grinning up at her as he grips the flesh in his teeth and shakes his head. The movement sends currents of air across Beth's clit, and she whimpers.

“You're mean,” she says, knocking his head with her thighs.

“Yeah,” he says, and without preamble licks a stripe up her pussy. “I'm a dick.”

She was already aroused and the touch makes her arch, thighs clamping around his ears.

“Lord Jesus,” Beth says, as he finally goes to work.

This isn't the first time she's felt his mouth on her, but the last was rushed, aborted, racing towards orgasm. Now Daryl takes his time: spreading her with his palms and teasing his tongue through the trough between her clit and entrance, lapping greedily at the slick that's gathered there. He strokes his fingers up and down her outer lips, nibbles on the inner, delves his tongue inside her in short sure strokes that leave her trembling. He is inexperienced but thorough, licking figure-eights and curly-cues across her cunt, everywhere but her clit where it throbs millimeters from his nose.

Beth sinks her hand into his shaggy hair, scratching at his scalp and shivering when the resulting rumble rolls through her pussy, strokes his head with the muscles of her thighs. She swallows as she tries to relax and enjoy the waves running through her body, accept what he's giving her without begging for more, revel in the pleasure that crashes towards pain as he uses the tip of his tongue to outline her jerking clit—but he's building something bigger than lust in the strokes of his lips, the way he caresses her flesh with mouth and hands like he's memorizing it, spreads her juices across his face like the finest lotion. She looks down at him just as he looks up, blue eyes pitch-black and full of something she's scared to name.

“Daryl,” she whimpers, desperate.

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs against her, reaching out his hand to grasp hers still fisting in the sheets. She tangles her fingers through his without thought. He looks at her, dark, heavy. “I've got you.”

He touches her clit and she comes trembling, clamping her thighs around his ears as he sucks on her gently, drawing out her orgasm in long flowing waves until she has to push at his head to draw him away. He doesn't let go of her hand.

She lets out a tremendous sigh and he pulls back, licking his lips and pressing a kiss to her thigh. He looks just as content as she does, and it twists her heart.

“Come here,” she says, reaching.

He complies without pause, crawling up her body to kiss her deeply, making her shiver with the taste of herself on his tongue. She tangles one hand in his hair and reaches with the other, patting blindly at the bedside until she finds the box of condoms, pulling one out and holding it as she flings her arm around his neck, biting gently on his tongue. By the time he pulls away they're both flushed and wanting; Beth can feel his pre-cum leaking onto her stomach where his cock rubs against her and her own liquids pooling on the sheets beneath them. She's never wanted anyone so badly.

“Ready?” she asks.

Daryl snorts, “What kinda question is that?” and kisses her again. Beth stretches both arms above her head to rip open the foil pack. He grunts when her small hand closes around his dick, giving him a few sure strokes before rolling the condom down his length, tracing a vein on her way back up. Daryl massages her breast and grits his teeth against her delicate movements, the heat of her hand around him. While she gives him a few tugs he sinks his hand between her legs, testing her wetness and finding her flooded. He massages her clit in circles, dipping down to gather more moisture before pulling her hood back and rubbing at the base, making Beth squirm, hip rubbing against the head of his dick until he groans.

“Gonna kill me, girl,” he growls in a voice that vibrates to her very core, leaning down to nip at her breast.

Beth bares her teeth in a smile, rearing up to kiss his neck. “Long as it's me.”

“It'll always be you.”

Beth's hand stutters on Daryl's length and it takes him a few moments to pull his mouth from her breast and look at her, frowning; a few moments more to realize what he's said, and for unease to flood his features.

His hand finds her hip to flip her over. Beth's hand darts out to cover his. She stops him.

Daryl lies, breathing heavily, on top of her. She can feel his heart pounding through his chest directly into hers, until they could share the same heartbeat. Through his breath she can hear the first patters of drizzle against the window. It's starting to rain.

“Beth—“

“Like this,” she says. She swallows, curls a lock of hair back behind his ear. “Fuck me like this.”

He looks at her, small and thin-boned beneath him, thumb touching her temple. The light of the streetlamp casts the rain in shadows across her face, dripping down her cheeks like tears. She doesn't breathe again until he nods. She doesn't smile. His eyes stroke her face as he reaches down between them to nudge her legs apart, take hold of his cock, and guide himself inside.

Daryl closes his eyes as he adjusts to her heat—but Beth keeps hers wide open. Watches the twitching of his mouth as he stretches her, the furrow between his brows, how his lips draw tight over his teeth, the way the hairs on his chin quiver. She holds his wrists lightly. He bottoms out, and her back arches; fingers flexing, she sighs. He opens his eyes at her fluttery breath, and his breath catches when he sees her eyes, the shadows streaming from them. Beth tightens her hold on his wrist, and he begins to move.

He isn't thrusting, not quite yet; with his eyes on hers they sway together, caught in the cadence of the rain. His hips draw a guttural sound from her throat, and Daryl leans forward to capture it, kissing her neck and then her mouth, swallowing the soft breaths that puff through her lips with every rock, threading soft fingers through her hair. Beth quivers with the reverence in his hands, the quiet way he fans her hair across the pillows, the way his hips move; he circles inside her before thrusting gently, slow, pulling back to look at her as his hands frame her face.

Beth squeezes her inner muscles, and he groans, long and deep.

“Beth...”

“Come for me,” Beth murmurs, doing it again, reaching beneath his shirt to touch his lower back in feathery strokes. His thrusts are growing stronger, and he clenches his jaw, burying his face in her neck as he breathes her in, focusing, focusing on her, the scent and feel and bounty of her body as her eyes close and lips gap and he moves inside her, her hands urging him on, sliding up his back to the first puckered line.

He wouldn't have noticed if her hands didn't stutter; as it is, she continues right away, prepared to tuck the hardened strip of flesh in the corner of her mind to be examined later. But he notices; notices the stutter of her fingers and the pause of her breath, the way she loses rhythm; and he comes up from her neck and she sees him remember—remember that this body is not all his body, even as bits of it belong to her, and she's touching the parts of him so small and tucked away they quiver in being brought to the light. The alarm that floods him mingles embarrassingly with his arousal and as he meets her eyes he can't even pull away before he comes, eyes tight and throat squeezing a high pitched sob from the base of his tightened throat.

He comes down in quivers, and it is fumbling, the way his so-sure body withdraws from hers where she lies still breathing in the throes of arousal. She blinks at the change, the sudden shift from pleasure to panic. She lunges for him before he leaves the bed, captures him perched on the edge, shaking as if he were still in orgasm.

“Daryl—“

“Don't,” he says roughly, jerking from her touch; but he isn't moving, not yet, and there at least is a victory; he stays seated on the edge of the mattress, shirt stretched across his taut back as his hands, white-knuckled, grip the bed.

“Daryl.”

She goes up on her knees behind him, lays her hands on his shoulders and he is shaking; he doesn't stop as she draws the shirt down his arms.

It takes her several moments to understand what she is seeing. When she does, the air leaves her in a rush. If the rain made it look like she was crying, his back is weeping; and she sucks in her own sob at the sight of the marks, the writing of the past he doesn’t want her to see.

But she sees it now, and he's letting her; is trembling, taut as a bow and set for flight—but he remains, head turned slightly as he locates her without looking; shivers when her finger stretches out to touch the first mark, an angry slash across his shoulder-blade that makes him twitch.

“Who did this to you?” she asks, spreading her palm across his skin.

His head jerks to the side. “Don't matter.”

“It does matter,” she says. Her heart feels like it's spilling down her throat.

_I don't think he was a great dad at the best of times..._

“ _You_ matter.”

“Beth, don't.”

“Daryl...” She shakes her head, touching his shoulder, and does the only thing she can think of; leans around him to touch his softened cock, reaches further to cup his balls in her hand. He's shivering, trembling, as she presses herself to his sobbing back, touches a mark down by his waist and with her lips paints the edges of another.

“You're so beautiful, Daryl, you know that?”

“Stop.”

“You are.” She rolls his balls softly, feels his dick twitch against her wrist. She kisses him again, laves her tongue across the scar; and although the flesh there had died long ago, she imagines he feels it.

“Beth...”

“Do you want to make me come?”

He hesitates, eyelashes fluttering against the knife blade of his cheek—then he nods; she feels his exhale as she releases his balls, kisses his back one last time before swinging herself around his body, settles herself in his lap. He won't look at her, yet; stares stubbornly at her sternum, eyes dropped and shadowed—but it's alright; she doesn't mind; just puts one hand on his cheek and the other on her clit, and begins to rub, knuckles rolling against his cock. She moans deep in her chest and he looks at her, eyes depthless and open; and without a word he nudges her hand aside to replace it with his, touching her softest place with his rough, rough hand, handling her like something precious.

“Daryl...”

“Quiet,” he says, but without malice, and she understands; knows words don't have a place between her hands and his scars as she reaches around to touch them with him touching her—stroking him with hands as soft and sure as the one between her legs, and the way Daryl's looking at her—the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the sideways slant of his mouth, the stub of his nose and the haze of his scruff and the curl of his lips that whisper _Beth, Beth_ as he leans in to capture her mouth—it's something new, something she's never seen, not in movies or TV or even her own heart in the imaginings of such moments—something deep and profound, like a sky full of flowers; hidden shapes emerging from the whimpering rain.


	9. You're a Bird, I'm a Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth wakes up in Daryl's apartment, and with him prepares to face a day apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's still on this journey with me. We're in sight of the home stretch, here!
> 
> Thanks as always to Mary for being the perfect beta.

Beth wakes to their limbs in such a tangle that her cell is halfway through its final ring before she can reach it.

“Hello?” she rasps into the receiver. Daryl tightens his arm around her where it lies looped over her waist, tugging her back into him and rubbing his crotch against her sleepily. Beth flushes and tries to scootch away, but his strong arms hold her fast. She resigns herself to holding a conversation while her boyfriend's dick nudges her ass.

“Bethany Ann Greene, where the hell are you?”

“Maggie,” Beth says, loosening Daryl's hold for long enough that she can flip onto her back. He grumbles sleepily, nosing at her neck and spreading his body half across hers as he holds her tight. Any other time it would be endearing.

“Where are you?” Maggie asks again. “Glenn is going to be here in five hours and you promised you'd help me with dinner!”

Beth frowns, pushing Daryl's face away from where he's breathing distractingly in her ear.

“Five hours? I thought he was coming at six?”

There's a long silence on the other end, during which time Daryl gets his hand around Beth's breast. She tries to push his arm away, but it just flops right back, and when he refrains from teasing her she decides to leave it.

“He is coming at six,” Maggie says. “Beth, it's one pm. Did I just wake you up?”

“Maybe,” Beth says, stifling a squeak as Daryl's hand drags off her breast to slot itself between her legs. “Daryl,” she hisses, holding the phone away.

“Mmmh, want you,” he murmurs, stroking her clit and rubbing his cock up and down her hip. Beth has to bite her lip hard to keep from moaning.

She's able to roll on her side and away from him for a moment, bringing the phone back to her ear.

“—are you having sex right now?!”

“I'll call you back later, Maggie, ok,” Beth says breathlessly, hitting the end call button just as Daryl pulls her leg back across his hip and sinks his hand once more into her wet heat. In his sleepy state, his finesse is wanting, and it takes him several tries to get his finger inside her; but that doesn't stop the electricity that leaps from his skin to hers, the grind of his hand on her clit or his dick hot and hard on her ass, and it's only several minutes before she's coming, clamping down on his fingers with a moan. She comes down sighing, boneless; before she can turn around to help Daryl with his own orgasm his breath hitches and he comes across her hip, painting her skin milky white.

He pulls his fingers out of her to bring them beyond her head, and Beth's breath hitches when she hears soft sucking noises by her ear. Daryl reaches behind himself to grab an undershirt and clean her off. He settles into her with a sigh.

“Mornin',” he rumbles.

“You didn't hear Maggie? It's after one.”

“Fuck Maggie,” he says, lipping at her ear. Enveloped in his heat, in his scent, in his bed, Beth is inclined to agree; but she knows it's only by her sister's grace that she can be here at all. She owes her.

“I gotta get up Daryl,” she says. He grumbles deep in his chest, holding her tight. “I gotta get up!” she repeats, pulling away from him and laughing at the pout beneath his closed eyes. He blinks them open to smile at her, sleepy.

She takes the moment to look at him. The sheet and blanket are slung low on his hips, revealing a casually defined stomach and solid chest, sprinkled with a fuzz of chest hair. The tattoo over his heart ripples with his quiet breathing; she can see his pulse, slow and strong, under his chin. He bends one arm back behind his head, stretching out the other to outline her nipple, making her shiver, want him again. She doesn't know if she'll ever stop wanting him.

“Don't want you to leave,” he rumbles, trailing his fingers down her ribcage to rest on her hip. He rubs at her skin, tilting his head.

Beth smiles, covering his hand with hers. “Got any food?”

Daryl smirks. “Yeah, just for you, too. Even know how to cook it.”

Beth giggles, leans down to peck him on the lips. “Why don't you get that going, then, and I'll call back my sister?”

As she moves to pull away he grabs the back of her head and drags her back in, pressing a smile to her laughing lips. His hand moves to cup her skull, holding her against him with the lightest touch; a touch she isn't inclined to argue with, not with his lips moving sure and sweet against hers, slowing, dragging, drawing her in as he lips at her mouth and she lets him in, humming around his tongue as he traces her bottom teeth. By the time they pull apart they both are breathless; Daryl's eyes are deep and close as she rests her forehead against his, his hand still tangled in the hair at her temple.

“Still wanna call Maggie back?” he asks, a rumble in his chest, and Beth shivers.

“Not really,” she murmurs, brushing a thumb across his nipple and making him jerk. He sighs, and she feels every brush of his breath on her face, warm, welcoming.

“You can borrow a shirt, if you want,” he says. His hand moves from her temple to her neck, and then her shoulder as he gently pushes her back, reminding her. She doesn't want to be reminded. She wants to lean back into him; kiss his mouth, his chest, push him down and stay in his bed the rest of the day, wrapped in his arms and thrilled to his touch; ride him, maybe, like she'd seen women do in movies, grip him by the shoulders and rock back and forth until they're both moaning and grasping each other's skin like they've lived to be marked by this day, by each other. She wants to roll him over and kiss across his scars one by one, touch him like she'd touched him the night before, sink beneath his skin until they're one flesh, one body. She wants him. She wants everything.

But they don't get that. Not now, not yet. She doesn't even know if they're ready for it.

So she sighs, and kisses his palm, and slips from the bed. She tries not to blush at the feeling of his eyes on her bare ass; gathers her panties and jeans and pulls them on quickly. It's only then that he sighs mightily and rises from the mattress; she peeks out of the corner of her eyes, curious, having never seen him in daylight. It's a magnificent sight—broad shoulders and tight waist, rounded bottom—but every inch marked in some way; she swallows a spike of sadness at the thick scars on his buttocks and thighs, ones she hadn't had a chance to notice the night before. She wants to walk over, go to her knees and kiss him until he melts back into her—but his shoulders are tight and he hurries into his clothes too, glancing at her and looking away.

Beth sighs and opens the room's lone dresser, pulling out a red plaid shirt and, after checking to be sure he's left the room, inhaling deeply, drawing in the softness and his scent. The fabric is slightly scratchy on her skin, but she doesn't mind; she buttons the top few buttons and ties the loose fabric around her front, leaving her lower back bare. There's no mirror in the room, so she spends some time fiddling with the knot, adjusting the fabric around her breasts so it doesn't bulge forward quite so egregiously. Feeling strangely nervous, she emerges from the bedroom.

She's instantly assailed with the scent of cheese and eggs, a smell somewhat alien to the sparse apartment. Smiling, she wanders into the kitchen and finds Daryl, shirt open, poking warily at the makings of an omelette. He glances at her as she approaches; her heart flutters when he smiles, and she wraps her arms around his waist, kissing his shoulder.

“Smells yummy,” she says, leaning her head on his arm. For a man so sure of his hands, it's strange to see the spatula fit so uncomfortably inside them. She kisses the curve of his neck, lightly, strokes his lower back.

“It'll be done in a minute,” he says. He's smiling like he's forgotten how not to, like it's become as much a part of his face as his usual scowl. Beth presses her own smile into his shoulder, feeling her cheeks pink. “Wanna sit and wait?”

“Alright.” She kisses his shoulder one last time and walks to the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her and folding her hands in her lap as she waits for him. She looks down and, glancing towards the kitchen, inches her sleeve up to reveal her scar. She realizes she hasn't thought about it all morning; usually it's the first thing she thinks of when she wakes and rubs her eyes, feels the drag of it across her nose and cheeks. It doesn't give her the same stomach-sinking feeling as usual; now she rubs it, and it feels like part of her—a piece of Daryl's skin, loved.

She hears his quiet step on the carpet and yanks her sleeve down, cheeks burning.

 _You've known him for two weeks, Beth,_ she thinks, smiling as best she can when he hands her her plate and settles beside her, her mind rolling. _What the heck you doing, thinking of_ love _?_

But it's the only word she has to describe the fondness in his eyes as he watches her, looking between her face and the plate. “Well?” he prompts. Beth smiles hesitantly and takes a tiny piece on her fork, blowing daintily and placing it in her mouth. They aren't as fluffy as Daddy's eggs, over-salted and on the rubbery side, but he's looking at her in such earnest expectation that it isn't hard to praise them.

“They’re so good, Daryl,” she says, biting her lip as his cheeks pink. He mumbles something under his breath and takes a big bite of his own eggs, wrinkling his nose as it burns his mouth. Beth giggles as she continues her own; it gets better with every bite.

“It's ok I took this shirt?” she asks, gesturing with her fork and just avoiding dropping egg on the fabric.

Daryl smirks and reaches forward to tug on the knot, brush his knuckles against her soft belly and make her shiver. “Won't be able to wear it without getting hard again, that's for sure.”

“Daryl!” she exclaims, looking around like there's someone that could overhear; but it's them, just them alone in this threadbare apartment, eating eggs and smiling at each other, knees nudging on the second-hand couch. Daryl just shrugs at her outburst, looking vaguely pleased with himself; Beth bumps his knee with hers. “Look at you, being all vulgar.”

He shrugs again. “It's the truth.”

And she knows. She knows it is.

She thinks back to Jimmy, to when they fell apart—the excuses he made, the way he'd run, duck away when he sighted her in hallways or the end of a lane. She doesn't fault him for it, not being able to handle her; she could hardly handle herself, when her mother was sick, when she died. But she thinks of the lies he'd told—of where he was, where he'd been, if he loved her... She could see Daryl running. She could see him avoiding her, if he felt he were in the wrong. But lying? Daryl Dixon would never lie. Not to her. She wonders if he's told a single lie in his life.

“So what's this shindig tonight? Glenn meeting the parents?”

“Yeah.” Beth wrinkles her nose. “Daddy overheard Maggie on the phone.”

“What's your dad got against boyfriends?”

Beth shrugs, takes a bite. “Doesn't want to lose us, I guess. Doesn't want us getting hurt. Jimmy—my ex—he was different. We grew up together, Daddy'd changed his diapers. We were supposed to get married someday.” Beth shakes her head. “He doesn't know Glenn. Doesn't know his family, whether he's a good man or not. After Mom, and... me, I don't think Daddy wants to take any chances.”

“And I could'a been changing your diapers too,” Daryl says wryly.

Beth giggles a little. “Yeah, wouldn't _that_ have been awkward.” She sobers, looking down at her plate. She feels Daryl's eyes hot on her cheek, watching. “It wouldn't be the age thing, I don’t think. Daddy was almost the same number of years older than Mama; although she was a lot older than me. It's...” Beth glances up at him, quails inside at the grim look on his face. She can't get the rest of the words out.

“It's what I do, huh? Who I am?”

“Yeah,” Beth says quietly. “He...” Beth trails off, frightened, a little, of what she wants to say.

“Spit it out, girl,” he says. It is not unkind.

“He thinks you're all like your dad.”

It feels like a different apartment, the way the air seems to close in on them. Beth swallows around the sudden lump in her throat as she watches his profile, his face turned away. Beth puts her plate on the table and reaches over to hold his hand. His fingers twitch, but he doesn't pull away. He doesn't pull away.

“I know you aren't Daryl. _I_ know.”

“Don't gotta beat kids to be like my Pop.” Daryl rolls his shoulders, like he can feel the scars tightening on his back like so many pythons.

“You're a good man, Daryl. Your family's full of good men.”

Daryl's head turns infinitesimally towards her, his mouth quirks up. “Family?”

“The club, yeah. That's what you are, aren't you? People who take care of each other, work together, love each other? That's all you need to make a family.” Beth goes up onto both knees so she can lean harder into Daryl's hand. “My dad will understand. I promise he will.”

“You planning on telling him any time soon?”

“Well... no.” Beth wrinkles her nose, and shoves at Daryl lightly when he chuckles. “Figure we ought'a figure out as much as possible before then, right?”

Daryl tilts his head. “Figure out what?”

He's finally looking at her straight on, and she almost wishes he weren't. Her cheeks burn as she sits back on her heels. He doesn't let go of her hand.

“What... what we are to each other. If... if...” Beth bites her lip, watching his serious eyes. “Was that alright? Last night?” she asks. “What we... at the end. When I took your shirt off. I didn't mean to—“

“It was good,” he says, quickly, like he needs to get the words out before his throat closes on him. She can see the swallow work its way down his throat; he pulls his hand from hers to button up his shirt, and she sighs internally at the loss of so much skin.

“But I mean, were you ok with it? I don't wanna push you into anything you're uncomfortable with.”

“You didn't push me,” he says. “Least... not more'n I needed.” Daryl puts his plate on the table and buries his head in his hands. Hesitantly, Beth brings up a hand, runs her fingers through the hairs at the nape of his neck; trails down, rubs his spine, sees the muscles stretch and relax. She wants to kiss him, but she watches his face instead. Watches him pull his hands away and look at her, leaning on his elbows on his knees, tense but accepting her touch.

“Daryl?”

“It's never been like that,” he says quietly. “Didn't think I'd ever... never seen a woman's eyes when I fucked her, never took my shirt off, never...” He trails off, and then he's sitting back and pulling her in, kissing her soft on the mouth. He pulls back and looks at her in a way that stops her breath; he strokes the skin at her temple with one hand, touches her knee with the other. He swallows again, touching her face, hands tremoring, and Beth feels her heart begin to thunder again, at what those hands say; she imagines he can hear it.

The both jump when Beth's cell goes off again; they share a glance, and Beth darts back to the bedroom to sweep her phone off the floor and flip it open. “Hello?”

“Finished fucking around yet?”

Beth winces, walking back into the main area. The call had broken the electricity in the room; Beth isn’t sure if she misses it or not, whether she’ll want to go back to it, in time. Her heart still gives a skip, though, when she sees him, sitting again with his elbows on his knees, watching her through his fringe, mouth pink from kissing her. His lips quirks in a way that makes her think he heard what her sister said.

“Sorry, Maggie,” Beth says. “Won't happen again. We were just—“

“No, no, spare the details, please, I have enough on my plate without thinking about my baby sister having sex.” Daryl's smile has grown now, and Beth shoves his shoulder lightly as she falls back onto the couch. “And speaking of plates... you thinking of joining me any time soon? This turkey ain't gonna baste itself.”

“You're making a _turkey_?”

“Daddy said keep him happy, I'm keeping him happy. He won't be happy if I tell him you're off getting freaky with some college guy.”

“College?” Daryl mouths; Beth shoves him again. He barely moves, the bastard.

“I'll be there, Mags, I promise. Forty minutes?”

“I'll be counting the seconds, here.”

“Goodbye, Maggie.”

“Bye.”

Beth flips the phone closed and sighs, throwing her head back against the couch. “Guess I better get going, huh?”

“Guess so.”

“I didn't tell her you were in college, by the way. Just that you're older. She must'a thought—“

“It's alright, Beth.” No matter how many times he says it, something in her thrills at his lips around her name; especially when it’s spoken with such warmth in his eyes, like she’s something worth holding onto.

For the first time in her life, she’s beginning to feel like she might be.

* * *

The 40 minute leeway gives them time to walk, and they do; it takes them 35 minutes to reach the hill overlooking the farm. It's a beautiful day; hot and clear with the slightest bit of humidity that sends sweat down between her shoulder blades. They hold hands the whole way. By the time they get there, Beth's palm is wet with a mix of his sweat and hers, but she doesn't even think of letting go.

“What you been humming?”

She looks up at him in surprise. They've barely spoken a word to each other the whole walk, save a few “C'mon's” when Daryl tugged her across more rugged terrain—but it's been nice; companionable, intimate, safe. She's been alone with her thoughts and he with his and save the night before in his bed she's never felt closer to him.

“Humming?” she asks. “I was humming?”

Daryl smiles at her fondly. “Yeah, like,” he hums a few bars, slightly off-key, but in his low, growly voice that sends butterflies cascading through her stomach. “What is it?”

Beth grins, bumping his shoulder with hers. “You should know this one, silly.” He shakes his head, still smiling down at her. “ _The Notebook,_ ” she prompts. He still looks lost. “'I'll Be Seeing You'. Noah and Allie danced to it in the street together.”

Daryl's quiet for a few minutes, looking straight ahead. They've reached the crest of the hill, where he dropped her off last time, and it makes Beth cling to his hand all the harder. Reluctantly, Daryl slows to a stop, pulling Beth back against him until their entwined hands are caught flush between their hips. They stand for a few moments in silence.

Suddenly, he breaks it. “Sing a bit?” he asks. He glances down at her, and his breath seems to catch at the look on her face—open and happy and glowing in the Georgia sun. Beth smiles, and sings softly,

 _I'll be seeing you in every lovely summer's day_   
_In everything that's light and gay_   
_I'll always think of you that way_   
_I'll find you in the morning sun_   
_And when the night is new_   
_I'll be looking at the moon_   
_But I'll be seeing you_

“You remember now?” she asks; her smile fades, though, as he unsticks their hands and walks a few paces away from her, facing the woods. His shoulders are tight under his vest and the shirt that still smells like burgers and sex. He rubs at the palm that had been against hers, bowing his head. “Daryl?”

“You ought'a go to your sister,” he says roughly, still facing away.

Beth walks forward slowly, lays a hand between the angel wings; she freezes when he jumps. Now she's worried.

“Daryl? What's the matter? I didn't mean—“

“Ain't you,” he says. “I'm a fucking...” He breathes out harshly, turns around. She only has a chance to be shocked that he's close to tears before he's crushing his face to hers, kissing her more roughly than he has since the bathroom, dragging her in close and grinding his hips against hers. There is a decided lack of hardness against her stomach, though, and after a few pushes at his chest Daryl pulls away, breathing deeply like he'd just run a mile. He won't meet her eyes, but he keeps holding her.

“Daryl...” Beth rubs the fabric of his shirt between her thumbs and forefingers, the less good memories of the night before rushing back. “Is this about tonight? What Merle has going on?” He doesn't answer. It's like they're different people than the one’s who had been here before, standing in worry on the crest of a hill. “How much danger are you in, Daryl?”

“You don't gotta worry, Beth,” he says, talking to her forehead.

“Daryl. _Daryl._ ” He finally looks at her, ducking his head so his hair partly obscures his gaze. She brings a hand up to push at his bangs, baring his face to her view. “I care about you,” she says, enunciated, slow. “Worrying's part of the job.”

“You shouldn't'a started.”

“Well. I did. You gonna blame me for that?”

“Yeah.” Daryl looks at her, then exhales roughly; he buries his face in her neck, drawing her forward until they're sealed together, chest to toes, lips to clammy skin.

“You scared?” Beth whispers; praying he'll say no, praying he'll put her own fears to rest.

“I ain't afraid of nothin',” he murmurs. She bites her lip. She knows him well enough to know what that means.

“You can't ditch and come to dinner? Or is Daddy scarier than that Governor?”

“Hell yeah, he is.” Daryl pulls back, shaking his head. At least he's looking at her now. “I gotta do this, Beth. Merle needs me.”

“He has other people.”

“And they got women too. Kids, some of them. I can't back out just cause'a you.” Beth bites her lip. She fights being hurt, and Daryl sees her fail; he huffs out a breath, and kisses her forehead, hard. “I mean this time. It's too soon, too...” He pushes his forehead against hers, hands solid and strong on her hips. “You just gotta trust me. I'll be ok.”

“And if you aren’t?” Beth whispers.

Daryl lifts a hand and touches her cheek, traces the line of her nose. “I ain't all that much, Beth.”

Beth hugs him, buries her face in his chest. “You are, Daryl. You're everything.”

They stand there, twined in an embrace, until Beth's phone begins its shrill ringing again. And even then, then don't part; they let it go to voicemail, ignore when it starts again. It's only the sound of a truck in the distance that makes them pull away. It sounds like Otis's.

Daryl rubs fiercely at his eyes. “I gotta go,” he says thickly.

“Glenn's gonna be here tonight,” Beth says, as fast as she can. She glances down the road, checking the distance. “You think you could just... text him or something, if you think... to let me know you're alright?”

He's silent for a long time, beating his heart into hers. The truck is getting closer.

“I'll try,” he says. He looks down the lane towards the truck, and presses a swift kiss to her lips just before it crests the hill. He walks away, head bowed, hands in his pockets, shoulders high and tight.

Beth stands watching him for so long, it takes Otis several tries before she hears him saying her name.

“Beth? Hey, Beth?”

She jerks awake, looking at her old friend—the man who's been like an uncle to her, whose wife has been a second mother. She suddenly wonders what would happen if she told him everything—told him her happiness, her fears, got him to turn that truck around and catch Daryl before he hits the clubhouse, tie him up until the whole business is over—but she doesn't. She can't. Not if she cares for Daryl like she thinks she does.

“You ok, Beth?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Otis, I'm fine.” She forces a smile. “Just not ready for Maggie's kitchen nightmares.”

Otis rolls his eyes. “Tell me about it. She got me driving all the way to Peachtree for some special spice I can't pronounce. I swear Beth, be glad you've never been this boy crazy.”

“Yeah.”

“Want a lift down?”

“No, I think I'll walk. Take a little more fresh air.”

“Ok.” He turns back to the wheel, then stops, poking his head out of the truck again. “That man that walked by a minute ago; he bother you? Don't think I've seen him before.”

Beth swallows. “Me neither. Just passing through, I think. Didn't say anything to me.”

“Alright, then, Bethy. Just making sure I didn't need to grab my shotgun. Happy cooking!”

“Thanks, Otis.”

He drives off down the hill; parks; goes inside the farmhouse with a plastic bag in his hands. Beth follows slowly, fingernails pressing crescents into her hands, biting her lip against the tears rising from her chest.

By the time she makes it down, she’s proud of herself; she hasn't shed a single drop.


	10. So Brave and Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glenn comes to dinner.

Beth arrives to a kitchen that could have been in the midst of a nuclear explosion. Food is everywhere—greens simmer on the stove while a turkey cooks in the oven, and sitting on the counter are a whole two dozen muffins, halfway to cool. Maggie is whisking with gusto a bowl of what looks like potatoes, their mother's old apron tied around her waist. It takes Beth aback a moment, seeing Maggie in her mother's things. The scar on her wrist tingles—but she remembers Daryl's scars, how they tasted the same as the skin around them; that for all their pucker and puff they were little more than felt stitching the memories inside. The only way to get them out was to cut them open again.

So Beth exits the hall—takes a deep breath to absorb the familiar smells of home, chase away the memory of leather and cigarettes—and, steeling herself, steps forward.

“Hey Mags,” she says with a little wave.

Maggie freezes in her whisking, turning around slowly. Beth blushes to the roots of her hair as Maggie takes her in—the hastily tied men's shirt, the ketchup on her jeans, the hickey she's sure blooms somewhere on her neck—and braces herself for the upbraiding sure to follow.

But Maggie just sighs, shakes her head, and turns back around. “Told you before, I don't have time for this, Bethy. Now get cooking.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Beth mutters, grabbing Patricia's drab apron from the hook.

They work in silence for nearly the entire three hours, words only spoken to warn of an incoming dish, and unfortunately this leaves Beth to her thoughts. Unwelcome thoughts, these: She looks out the window towards the front of the farm and sees Daryl hanging spread-eagled from the electrical wires marching beside the road; she looks at her hands, speckled with cranberry sauce, and imagines it's his blood. She glances at Maggie and suddenly wishes, for the first time since their mother fell ill, that Maggie would take an interest—that she'd ask why Beth's hands shake around the cutlery and her face stays down even as the sun shines on it. But her sister works on, consumed in thoughts of Glenn, and Beth, as she so often does, suffers silently.

Finally, the meal is as prepared as it's going to be, and Maggie stands in the middle of the kitchen, a little haggard around the eyes but triumphant, glowing. Beth takes the moment to feel happy for her sister, for accomplishing something like this for someone she loves. The good moment doesn't last long, however.

“What happened to your shirt?” Maggie asks, looking at Beth out the corner of her eyes.

“Got dirty,” Beth says, hanging her apron up and going to wash her hands. Her back feels hot with Maggie's eyes on it, and she resists the urge to pull the shirt down.

“He's a big guy, huh?” Maggie asks, leaning against the island and folding her arms.

“What?”

“Your boyfr—“

“Shh! Maggie!”

“Daddy isn't even here, he isn't getting in til 5:30. You gonna show up here in some guy's shirt and not tell me about it?”

“There's nothing to tell. My shirt got dirty and he lent me his.” Beth pats her hands against her jeans to dry them. “What's the dress-code for tonight, anyway?”

“Casual,” Maggie says, in a way that means black tie. “Am I ever gonna meet him?”

“Eventually. Maybe. I don't wanna talk about it.”

Maggie frowns, and pushes off the counter. “Did you have a fight, Bethy? He didn't—“

“We didn't fight, Maggie, jesus! You think you could just once leave me alone?”

“Beth—“ Maggie says, reaching for her as she brushes past. Beth shrugs her off, continuing up the stairs and into her room. She closes the door and flops on her bed, groaning as she feels last night's makeup rub off on the coverlet. She rolls over and puts a wrist over her eyes, shading them from the late afternoon light. The guilt of talking to Maggie like that is starting to seep in, and Beth sighs, rubbing her crusty eyelashes. She hates being scared, because it makes her lash out—and she is scared. She is. And that very fact is enough to terrify her.

She lies in bed, thinking about Daryl—about their night together, about the crew she saw at the barbeque, about how fast this life is going—until she hears her daddy's voice begin to drift up the stairs. With a sigh, she sits up; grabs new pair of jeans, a yellow polo, and a white cardigan, and heads off for the shower.

* * *

By the time Beth gets downstairs Maggie is halfway to frantic again, dashing around the kitchen while Hershel sits in his favorite chair, hands folded across his stomach as he watches his oldest daughter with amusement. Beth watches Maggie for a few moments, allowing the ridiculousness to filter into her bad mood. She looks towards her father and meets his eyes; despite herself, she matches his smile.

“Maggie’s gonna collapse before Glenn even gets here, she keeps this up,” Beth says, going over to kiss him. “You sure you should’a made her believe tonight rests on her cooking?”

Hershel rumbles out a chuckle, shaking his head. “Maggie hears what she wants to hear.”

“You got that right.” Beth leaves her hand on her father's shoulder, watching Maggie bustling around—and suddenly, she wants to tell him. Tell him about Daryl, about their time together, how she feels about him... but it wasn't a lie, what she told Daryl earlier—she doesn't quite know _what_ she feels. Not this soon, not this fast, not when this started as a quick fuck in a bar and is now... more, it's more, that's the only word she has and she doesn't know if it's enough for her daddy to understand. Understand how in such a short time Daryl's etched himself into her skin as surely as a scar might, and just as permanently; and no matter what he does, who he is is someone special. Her daddy's the one who always taught her to see past the surface of things—to look at people how God would, within and through, as pieces and a whole. She's only done what her daddy taught her. He has to understand that.

But looking at him now—quiet and content with his two children still at home, the worries of the day smoothed from his brow by the warmth of the house—she can't bring herself to do it. Not yet. Not on Maggie's night to divest herself of secrets, to share with her father the one who—

Her turmoil is interrupted by two nervous knocks on the door, almost scratches, followed by three more, stronger ones. Maggie freezes in her preparations, glances at their father, and dashes towards the door, flinging her apron off as she goes.

Beth and Hershel follow more slowly, Beth helping her father to stand before trailing behind him, a knot building in her gut as she remembers what Glenn knows, and his panic when she begged him not to reveal it. Maggie herself had told Beth to continue pretending she'd never met him before; Beth thinks of the man's wide open face, and feels her heart beat pick up. It would take so little for it all to collapse, and it all rests on Glenn.

When she gets to the door, she stifles a laugh. Glenn's done up in an entire three piece suit, including tie; he's slicked his hair back with enough mousse to look like a greaser. He's shaking her father's hand, trying desperately to hide his nervousness. Maggie stands to the side and back of him, already looking like the night is a disaster.

And then Glenn turns to Beth, and freezes, his eyes growing imperceptibly wider as he gulps. She knows what he's picturing: her body bent backwards under the force of Daryl's kiss, her hands tangled in his greasy dark hair, his weathered cheek pressing to her fair skin. Her own cheeks pink as she steps up to shake his hand. Hershel's already turned back to the living room, but she's acutely aware of Maggie watching them.

“Glenn,” he croaks, glancing at her father.

“I'm Beth. Nice to meet you.” They withdraw their hands awkwardly. Maggie's looking between them, opening her mouth to say something, when a buzzer goes off in the kitchen. She mutters an excuse and scurries away, leaving Beth and Glenn alone in the foyer.

“Have you seen him today?” Beth asks as soon as Maggie is out of earshot.

Glenn shakes his head, gulping again. “Nuh-uh, no way, I'm already halfway to peeing myself, if you want me to keep this secret we can't be talking about it—“

“Please, Glenn,” Beth begs, grabbing his hand. “You know what's going to happen tonight. How is he?”

Glenn glances towards the kitchen. “Nervous,” he says in a horrible stage whisper. “They all are. I mean, they hide it, but they are. They haven't faced another crew like this since Merle's been president.”

“They'll be ok, though, won't they?”

“Beth, I don't want to—“

“Beth, Glenn, get in here, hors d'oeuvres! Got those pigs in blankets you like, Beth!”

“Coming!” Beth hollers back without turning. “Glenn, just... please. I'm feeling helpless here.”

A confused, considering look slips through Glenn's anxiety. “You really care about him, don't you?”

“I do,” Beth says quietly. She looks down, fiddling with her sleeve. “I know this ain't fair to you—“

“It's ok,” Glenn reassures her. Glancing towards the kitchen again, he puts a brief hand on Beth's shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, he told me to check up on you, too. You could do worse.”

Beth smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Glenn.”

“Yeah.” He looks past Beth again, and winces. Maggie's standing at the door to the kitchen, arms crossed, tapping her foot. “Not doing too great a job at not knowing each other,” he mutters, waving at her sister nervously.

Beth rolls her eyes, shooting Maggie a look, to which she raises her eyebrows. “Daddy'll find out eventually anyway. He usually does.”

“Yeah, but I'm hoping he does when I'm far, far away from here. Daryl too.” Glenn nudges her between the shoulder blades, and she swats back at him, a surprised giggle bursting from her mouth at his expression. He rolls his eyes and nudges her again, and she goes, passing Maggie with her nose in the air.

Maggie'd been overzealous with cooking time, and they've only just started their hors d'oeuvres by the time the turkey finishes. Glenn scurries into the dining room, probably thankful he'll at least be sitting down while Hershel grills him, Hershel in the kitchen preparing to carve the turkey. Maggie and Beth follow Glenn more slowly.

“You think I should find him some of my leftover Xanax?” Beth asks, grinning at her sister.

“What were you two talking about? At the door?” she asks. Beth's smile fades. “You know what you're supposed to do.”

“I was just reminding him.”

“If Daddy finds out I brought you to that bar we'll _both_ be in trouble—“

“I _know,_ Maggie.” Beth watches her sister, and is shocked to see she seems about to cry. She pulls her into the hall, hands on her arms. “Maggie, what's the matter?”

Maggie sniffs loudly. “I just want this to go well so badly. I love Glenn, but if Daddy doesn't like him—“

“Daddy's gonna _love_ him, Maggie, you know that—he was a little wary at first, but Glenn's a great guy. And you love him. That's all he cares about.” Beth squeezes Maggie's arms. She smiles devilishly. “No matter how bad your cooking is.”

Maggie swats at her, wrinkling her nose. “Shut up, brat. Just wait till Daddy meets _your_ boyfriend, and you'll see how I feel.”

Beth suppresses the sinking in her stomach, forcing a smile. “Hah hah, Maggie.”

“Seriously, Beth, you've been so secretive—“

“What are you girls whispering about?”

Beth whirls around, to see Hershel standing with the platter of turkey, looking at them with eyebrows raised. Beth makes herself smile sheepishly.

“Just about the menu, Daddy,” she says. Hershel chuckles indulgently and continues into the dining room. Beth exhales in relief.

“I _will_ find out, Beth,” Maggie says, poking her shoulder.

Beth sighs, taking her sister's hand, pulling her forward. “Let's get through tonight first, 'kay?”

“Fine.”

They all settle, say their prayers, and dig in. As Beth knew it would be, the food is fine, as is the company; once Glenn relaxes a little and stops paling every time he looks at Hershel, the conversation flows smoothly, and with it goes some of Maggie's tension. With the easing of Maggie's anxiety, Beth allows herself to relax, too; enjoy the food, enjoy her family, of which she already considers Glenn a part. Daryl might be in danger, but he wouldn't want her to dwell on that, not with family around her; not when she has access to all the happiness he's never known.

She's just about succeeded in pushing him to the back of her mind when she feels Glenn stiffen next to her. She looks over and sees he has his phone open under the table. Maggie and Hershel are talking about something that happened to the Wellmans' cat; Beth glances at them before leaning towards Glenn.

“Everything ok?” she asks. He looks at her, then back at the phone, biting his lip. He passes her the device.

She glances at her family again, then puts the phone under the table, reading the screen quickly. It's a pair of texts, sent one after the other. She has to read them through several more times before she can comprehend the words; another few before her eyes slow enough to let her brain understand.

> daryl d 7:15pm: _phone off soon_
> 
> daryl d 7:16pm: _tell beth – ll b seing u_

Beth blinks heavily. She mouths the last four words. She clutches the phone tight. The plastic shifts. She feels Glenn's eyes on her as her hands begin to shake.

“Glenn, tell Daddy about where you work.”

Beth's head snaps up along with Glenn's. Maggie and Hershel are both looking at him expectantly, oblivious to Beth's trembling.

“It's, uh, a garage,” he says, accepting his phone back into an open hand. “I went to Georgia Tech for engineering. Thought I'd earn some money before grad school.”

“You like working there?” Hershel asks.

“Yeah, yeah, it's fun. The guys are great.” He glances at Beth. “Never a dull moment.”

Hershel chuckles. “I can imagine. I met Will Dixon once, right as I was starting out my practice. Rolled into the yard in this monstrous pickup truck, dragging his kids after him. The younger one was carrying a pitbull bigger than he was, no help from the others. The poor girl was having a breech birth, would'a died if he hadn't brought her in then. Will and his older boy—he seemed about 20, then, already in a vest—took off soon after they dropped her off, but the younger one stayed, held her through the whole thing. I offered to drive them all, him, her, and the puppies, back, but he said no: He'd walk, and the dogs were better here. Didn't hear anything more about them until the man was murdered.” Hershel pauses, purses his lips. “Those boys still running things?

Glenn nods nervously, very consciously keeping his eyes off Beth. “Merle does, yeah. Daryl's vice-president.”

Hershel shakes his head sadly. “You stay out of their trouble, son, you hear? Man like you is too good to throw your life away like that.”

“Uhh, thanks, sir,” Glenn says. He does glance at Beth now, sees her pale-faced and gaunt-cheeked as she clenches her jaw. “They really aren't bad guys, though. Especially Daryl. He's the one who got me the job, actually; met him at a sports bar about a year ago, told him I needed work, and he took me in. They're like family, there. Good guys.”

“Regardless. You do your time and get out of there, Glenn. No good comes from that sort.” He pauses, looks contemplatively into the air. “The dog was pregnant, so it was hard to see at first, but the poor thing was malnourished. I always say, you know the kind of person a man is by how he treats those under his care. He treated his dog like that, can't imagine how he treated those boys. And their sons will likely be the same, if they live that long.” He shakes his head again. “A darn shame.”

“But you aren't like that.”

The attention of the room snaps to Beth, and under its gaze she realizes just how badly she feels, how she must look. But they're watching her, and she can't keep quiet.

“Excuse me?”

“You said that Granddaddy treated you badly too, and you never did that to us. You changed. It was good, in the end.”

“Yes,” he says slowly, “but I had Patricia and Otis, your mother, Maggie’s. All they have around them is more crime, more pain. There's no one to help them.”

“They can help themselves, though, they can—“

“What's this about, Beth?” Maggie asks, squinting at her. Her eyes widen. “Beth, you're shaking. What's the matter?”

“Uhh, you know, I feel sort of off too, eating all this food—“

“May I be excused?” Beth cuts Glenn off. She doesn't wait to hear their answer; just stands and bolts from the table, heading directly for the hall bathroom and locking the door.

She steps up to the sink, glancing at herself in the mirror before leaning her forehead against it, her hands, trying to slow her breathing. The glass is cool on her feverish skin and she squeezes her eyes tight, struggling not to cry. It isn't just worry about Daryl's safety that's making her break down, although that's a big part of it—it's the secrets, the lies on top of lies that mean she can't even defend someone she cares for, can't even tell her daddy how ignorant he's being, how unfair, how Daryl does have someone—and maybe she'll do some good, but in the end it's him, it will always be him, him and his goodness and his strength and his sweet, fathomless eyes...

It's several minutes before she can get her breathing under control; another few before she opens her eyes and looks at herself. Her cheeks are still pale, her nose a little red, but she didn't cry and her eyes are fine. She didn't cry.

Clearing her throat loudly, Beth washes her hands, flicking water at her face and shaking her head to try and clear it. She'll have all the time in the world to worry about Daryl, about her family. Her job now is to get through the night.

When she walks back to the dining room, though, it's empty, the dishes already cleared; no one's in the living room either. She wanders from room to room, frowning, until she comes upon Maggie in the kitchen, scraping food scraps into the garbage.

“Where's Daddy and Glenn?” Beth asks.

Maggie glances back at her. “Daddy's upstairs; Glenn left. Said he needed to stop by work on the way home, thought he'd leave before it got too late. He said to tell you he hoped you're ok. Are you ok?”

“Sure,” Beth says, but Maggie's already turned around, reached for the next plate. Beth walks up beside her and takes a plate from the stack, goes to the other half of their double sink and begins rinsing it. She swallows, concentrates on the feeling of ice-cold water flowing across her knuckles, biting her skin.

They work in silence for a few minutes, until Maggie sighs, tilting her head back and closing her eyes with a smile. “Tonight went so well, Beth,” she says, grinning at her sister. Beth manages an awkward half-smile, turns back to the sink. “I think Dad liked him, he really liked him. I was worried when he started talking about the garage, but I can tell, he doesn't think Glenn is like that. He _liked_ him, Beth,” Maggie says, taking hold of her sister's upper arm and squeezing it.

“I'm really happy for you, Maggie,” Beth says. She knows her tone at least sounds genuine, because it is—she's glad tonight went well. She likes Glenn; likes him even more for the concern he showed her tonight. Likes him because he defended Daryl, as much as he could. “Maggie—“

“Daddy even said he should come back for dinner next week!” Maggie says, practically dancing in place. “I won't cook like this, obviously—you're right, it was total overkill—but I'll make something nice, baked ziti or something—“

“Maggie—“

“—with beans and peppers, the way Mom used to make it—my God, imagine if Daddy lets him _stay over_ —we can go riding in the morning, maybe sneak into the hayloft for a little something something—“

“Maggie!”

Maggie finally stops talking, looks at her sister like she's surprised to find her there. “Beth? What's the matter?” She starts scrubbing at a plate, looking at Beth from time to time. “What happened to you during dinner, anyway? You're still looking a little pale—“

“What would you have done, if Daddy didn't like him?”

Maggie frowns, finally pausing in her movements. “But he did like him.”

“But what if he didn't? What if he met him, and he still thought he wasn't good enough? What if... what if Glenn were one of those bikers Daddy hates so much?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Can you please just answer me?”

Maggie frowns, but resumes her scrubbing, watching Beth out of the corner of her eye. “Well... I would have kept seeing him, obviously. Dad isn't a dictator or anything, he wouldn't kick me out.”

“He'd be disappointed, though.”

“Yeah... but Glenn's worth it. _We're_ worth it, what we are together. Dad would get over it.” Maggie squints at her again, and Beth shifts on her feet, feeling her sister's attention finally laying heavy on her. “Is this about your guy, Beth? Is there a reason Dad wouldn't like him?”

Beth squeezes her eyes shut, biting her lip against the tears. She's just so _tired_ again; tired in a way she hasn't been, not really, since she met Daryl, and she worries it's a premonition. Daryl'd texted Glenn almost forty-five minutes ago; what if this feeling means something, what if...

“Whatever it is, it's like I said—Dad would get over it. The hardest part is telling him. Even if...” Maggie trails off, looking out the window towards the road. “Did Glenn forget something?”

“What?” Beth peers out with her. For several long moments, she doesn't see anything—and then she does: A pair of headlights cresting the hill, coming down with speed.

“It doesn't sound like Glenn's car—and those headlights look pretty close together—“

“Get Dad,” Beth says, low in her throat. Her soapy fingers flex against the sink. She can feel the blood racing past the underside of her scar. Her heart thunders.

“What?”

“Get Dad!” Beth rips away from the sink, ignoring Maggie's confused look, ignoring the suds still coating her wrists; it's barely a moment before she's bursting through the front door, racing down the porch and meeting Merle where the lights from the house illuminate him, shoving down the kickstand and yanking a limp, blood-covered Daryl tighter against his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duuuuun!!!
> 
> So sorry to enter the new year on a cliffhanger, but, what can you do. I already have a bunch of the next chapter written, and it's fixing to be a long one, but hopefully I'll have it up in the next few days.
> 
> I hope everyone has a safe, happy, healthy New Years!


	11. I Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mary for all her help with this chapter, and for dealing with my stubbornness. You're perfect <3
> 
> Warning for some gore, continued discussion of depression and suicide attempts, etc.

“What happened?” Beth gasps, already out of breath from her short run and her panic. She skids to a stop and reaches a hand out to steady Daryl as Merle swings a leg over the bike; her hand squishes on his shirt, sinking into the blood on his chest.

“Went bad,” Merle says shortly. “He got shot. They shot us, the motherfuckers.”

“Come on, help me get him inside.” Merle shoves his hands under Daryl's armpits to drag him off the bike; a deep groan rips from Daryl's throat as he collapses against Merle. Beth shoves her shoulder underneath his right arm, while Merle takes the other, and together they stumble towards the porch.

Merle pauses suddenly, and Beth's momentum makes her swing around, crushing her to Daryl's side. “Merle, what—“

She looks up and sees her family silhouetted by the doorway; Maggie standing a little back, her father in front, clutching a shotgun.

“He needs help!” Beth calls up, pleading. No one moves. They stare down the steps like they’ve never seen her before. “Please, Daddy!”

Beth’s too far away to see Hershel’s expression, but she can guess what she’d find—shock, confusion, disapproval, maybe even anger—but as she knows, he’s a healer first. He pauses a moment longer, then hands the rifle to Maggie and strides down the steps, motioning Beth aside so he can take her place, heaving Daryl up to his taller height and helping Merle drag him up the stairs. Beth follows right behind, a hand on Daryl's back, in her mind in case they drop him but really to feel the slow thud of his heart, the flutter of his lungs; to know he's there.

“There's a bedroom to the left,” Hershel grunts, and Merle nods; with some negotiating, they get Daryl into the spare first floor bedroom and lower him to the bed as gently as possible. His head lolls against the pillow, eyelids fluttering over the whites of his eyes. Beth stands by the foot of the bed, hands limp by her side as Merle comes up beside her, watches as Hershel grabs a pair of scissors from the bedside and begins cutting through Daryl's soaked and crusting shirt.

“Watch the leather!” Merle shouts. Hershel pauses, shooting him a cutting look that has Merle stepping back.

“You have no right to speak here,” Hershel bites; Beth feels Merle gulp beside her.

“A'right, old man,” he mutters, clenching his fists. “Just fix him, ya hear?”

Hershel might have said more, but at that moment Maggie bustles in, clutching Hershel's vet bag in one hand and the rifle still tight in the other. She hands off the bag and Hershel goes back to cutting Daryl's shirt; Beth comes up to the head of the bed on the other side to help shrug Daryl out of the sleeves and his vest.

She feels a wave of nausea pass over her as she sights the wound on his right shoulder: red and puckered and oozing, fibers of his shirt all tangled in the rushing blood. It’s more than when she cut her wrist, so much more—she’s staring at it, hypnotized, when he groans again; she looks up and his eyes are open, rolling wildly until they focus on her.

“Hold him down,” Hershel grunts as Daryl tries to sit up; Beth leans across him, pinning him by his bad shoulder and pressing her chest against his.

“Beth...”

A brilliant smile slides across his face, wider than she's ever seen him smile. She can barely breathe. She doesn’t notice Hershel’s sharp look in her direction, or the way Maggie freezes behind her with wide eyes. Sounds haze, the world goes slow, and for a moment it’s just her and him. She feels the hard planes of his chest under her body, the warm puff of his breath; his good hand rises to cup her cheek. She leans into him, tears glazing her eyes. She kisses his palm. His smile only widens.

“My girl's here, huh? Look'it'er, Merle—“

“You gotta lie down, Daryl,” Beth says, gently removing his hand from her cheek and pressing it to the bed.

“Yur the prettiest thing,” he says, still smiling goofily. Hershel's wiping at the wound with a rag, focused on his work, but Beth knows he's listening intently to every word. “My pretty thing—you are ain't, ya? Mine?”

Beth’s cheeks flare red as she feels the weight of the room’s attention; but Daryl comes first.

“I am, Daryl, but you gotta rest now.”

“A'right.”

“Close your eyes,” Beth whispers as his lids slide closed; she feels the tension leave his body as he faints again, and she stands up slowly, trembling. Her eyes slide to her father’s, and hold there, pressure building in her chest.

“Dad?” Maggie asks.

“There's an exit wound,” Hershel says, looking away from Beth, rolling Daryl over partially to look at his back; Beth sees the pause as he takes in the scars. She clenches Daryl's good hand reflexively as she imagines his discomfort, were he awake.

“That's good, right?” Merle says. Hershel shoots him a look for disobeying him, but says nothing.

“Yes, it's good. He's fainted from blood loss, but,” he puts his stethoscope to Daryl's chest, holds it a moment, “his pulse is strong; he should go to a hospital—“

“Ain't happenin',” Merle says, blunt.

“I thought not,” Hershel says darkly. He reaches for a clean rag. Beth still can't look away from Daryl. “Maggie, you've done this before; get him in the recovery position and find the penicillin—Beth, out of the way—“

Beth stumbles back, feeling chilled from the coldness in her father’s voice; she stands, staring, as Maggie rushes to fill her place. Hershel and Maggie heave Daryl onto his good side, tilting up his chin and curling his legs to support him. His face has gone pale under his tan, and Beth bites her lip, thinking of where all that blood’s gone.

The only thing to shake her out of herself is the sound of the bedroom door closing.

Her head jerks around, and she finds Merle missing. With one last glance at Daryl, she dashes out, grabbing Merle before he reaches the front door.

“Where the hell are you going?”

Merle shakes his arm violently, dislodging her grip and making her stumble back a step. “You get off me, girlie.” He reaches for the knob, but she gets in front of him, holding the door with her body.

“Where. Are. You. Going,” she bites out. He glares down at her, looming with all his height, but Beth doesn't waver; just clicks the lock shut, loudly, glaring right back.

“Not that I have to tell you nothin,” he says, “ but I'm gettin' the hell out of here to clean up this damn mess.”

“You can't go. He's your brother—“

“And I got him to safety, didn't I? Away from the cops, away from the Governor, away from my crew wonderin' where the hell I am—“

“You have to stay—“

“Pete's dead!” Merle shouts. Beth freezes, her hand falling from the lock.

“What?” she gasps.

“Dead. Shot in the head, _muerto, mort,_ gone from this fucking world, along with hell knows how many others.” He steps closer to Beth, his breath smelling of old tacos and blood. “You don't let me out this door, girl, we gonna have a problem, no matter what your daddy does for my brother.”

“What _happened,_ Merle?” She feels a flash of anger, and shoves him out of her space. “You were supposed to _protect_ him! What the hell happened!”

“Deal went bad. That's all there is to it.” He glares at her a few more moments—then something in his face seems to collapse. He scrubs a hand across his cheeks, and she's shocked to see the glint of frustrated tears. “He told me your old man's a vet. Figured he could deal with a gunshot wound. I take him to the hospital, we got cops sniffing around, you got that? I did this. I got him here. He's safe.” Merle takes his hand from his face, looks at her levelly. “He's with you. You'll take care of him.”

“What happened to my ulterior motives?”

Merle makes a face. “Last days of war, kid. Gotta trust you love him like he says you do.”

“He said—“

“He didn't say that, christ, woman—but he knows ya care. Knows you'd do what you can for 'im. You gonna do that? Or you gonna pitch him out with the trash the second I leave?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I'm going.” Merle steps past her and yanks open the door, striding into the night. Beth stands at the door, watching him go, feeling that familiar sense of helplessness wash over her.

When Merle reaches his bike, though, he stops, turns to her. For a moment they stand, eyes locked, united by feeling for his brother. Despite the turmoil, the fear—it’s not a bad feeling.

“You take care of him, ya hear?” Merle yells. “I'll be back when I can.” Beth just nods, watches him mount the bike.

She stands there until his tail lights disappear over the hill and into the night; she stands longer, arms clutching her sides, staring at the stars and realizing it’s something she and Daryl have never done together. There’s so much they haven’t done together.

Beth doesn’t know how long it is before she comes out of her daze, blinking fiercely and sucking in a breath. The spiraling feeling of being out of control opens and closes in her stomach as the tension of the night begins to catch up with her—she fights to keep her breathing even, leaning on the doorframe and thinking of what could be happening inside. What her father and sister are thinking.

But eventually, as she feels they always will, her feet drag her back to Daryl. By the time she enters the room, he is alone, on his back, sleeping soundly, a makeshift IV strung up beside him. Beth doesn’t step beyond the doorway; just stands, watching his bare chest rise and fall, his eyelashes flutter against his cheek. His right shoulder is a mass of bandages, wound with an expert hand; she wishes, not for the first time, that everything had waited to fall apart until after her eighteenth birthday, the year when Daddy had promised to teach her the grittier aspects of his trade, just like he taught Maggie. But with her suicide attempt, the surrounding depression, he didn’t want to risk it; was worried the blood would trigger her, or something, even though blood was the least of what haunted her—when her mother’s blood had not spilled, but stagnated, withering away in her wasting body.

That’s what scares Beth—fading away. Maybe that’s why she loves so much the feel of Daryl’s solidness against her; the reminder that there’s something ancient and concrete tethering her to this world. He’s pale, now, and still, and shrunken of affect in his slumber; but he’s _there._ He’s alive—so, so alive, and with him the knowledge that she is too.

“Beth?”

Beth turns and finds her sister standing there, face a rictus of concern. She looks Beth over, and swallows. She reaches out a gentle hand.

“Come sit down, Beth. I’ll help you.”

Beth looks once more at Daryl before shutting the door—not completely, just enough that he’s shielded from easy view—and follows Maggie to the couch. She sinks down slowly as Maggie heads for the kitchen; when she returns, she’s carrying a bowl of water and a cloth. She sets them on the floor by Beth’s feet and drags an ottoman over, settles before her.

Beth feels something in her spark back to life when Maggie dips the cloth in the water, wringing it out carefully. She frowns.

“What are you doing?”

Maggie looks up, a knit in her brow. “Beth, you’re covered in blood.”

Beth looks down at herself, and it’s true; her hands, palm up on her knees, are coated in it; the left side of her cardigan and shirt are soaked. She is suddenly aware of the stickiness on her skin, the way it cools, cloying. Her limbs begin to shake.

“Shh, Beth, it’s ok,” Maggie says, taking hold of one of Beth’s hands. She works the cloth over the back of it slowly, the rasp of the fabric like a cat’s tongue. The blood is fresh enough that most of it comes off easily; Maggie works across Beth’s hand, up her wrist and between her fingers, until the limb is clear save for specks on her bicep; placing the hand back on Beth’s knee, she moves to the other hand, repeating.

Despite herself, Beth finds the process soothing, and her eyes slide closed as Maggie works; soon her trembling is little more than a tremor in her bones, and even when Maggie tiptoes around her scar, she doesn’t flinch.

“Dad went up,” Maggie says, quiet, like she knows how tenuous Beth’s hold on calm is right now. “I think he’s worried what he’d say, if he stayed down.”

Beth snorts softly. “And you?”

Maggie’s quiet for a long time, working at a particularly stubborn spot near her thumb.

“I’m less confused than I was,” she says. “Also more confused.” Beth meets her eyes for the first time since she sat down. “So… that’s him, huh? The guy you’ve been seeing?”

Beth nods. She keeps her eyes open, but moves them back to her hands.

“The guy who started fucking you while we were on the phone this morning?”

“It wasn’t technically fucking,” Beth mutters, flushing at the memory of Daryl’s hands on her.

Maggie rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” She levels Beth with a stare. “I don’t have to tell you how ridiculous you are, do I? Cause this comes in there right around a monkey singing ‘C’est Si Bon’.”

“What’s ridiculous about it?”

Maggie looks at her like she’s gone dumb. “Beth, you and a _Dixon_? What the hell were you thinking?”

“I didn’t even know who the Dixons were when I met him. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.”

“How did you even meet him? It wasn’t…” Beth flushes a deep red, avoiding Maggie’s eyes. “You didn’t. Oh God, Beth, please tell me it wasn’t—”

“It’s worse than that,” Beth mutters, looking at her lap.

“Worse? What could be—”

“We had sex. In the bathroom.”

The room is filled with resounding silence. Beth chances a look at her sister’s face, and finds her thunderstruck.

“So… your panic attack—”

“Yeah.”

“—was not a panic attack—”

“No.”

“—it was a fucking _orgasm_?!”

“Pretty sure it was more than one,” Beth says, flushing to the roots of her hair.

Maggie sits there, mouth hanging open, hands limp in Beth’s lap. She shakes her head slowly, staring at her sister like she’s never met her before.

“ _Shit,_ Beth!”

“I know.”

“I thought… jesus, I thought this was some cotton candy fairground type thing, and then you go and…”

“It’s not the worst I could have done. We used a condom.”

“Beth,” Maggie leans forward, puts her hands in claws over Beth's knees, “Screwing someone in a bathroom is _not_ a promising first date, no matter how good the sex is.” Her cheeks pink a little at that, but she holds firm. “You remember how you were feeling that day? How low you were?”

“I’m surprised you do,” Beth mutters.

Maggie reels back. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You weren’t exactly paying attention to me.”

“I was.” Beth levels her stare. “I was.”

“You were laughing with your friends while I was at the bar trying not to cry.”

“You should have told me.”

“I didn’t need to. Daryl was there.”

“Don’t you see what that makes him, though?” Maggie’s eyebrows are squinched so tight they’re nearly touching. “You weren’t in any place to consent to anything. He _took advantage_ of you.” Maggie shakes her head. “I don't know how you're gonna get me to understand this. All the things you've ever done—“

“What have I done, Maggie?” Beth's voice is still quiet, but steel is rising beneath it. Beth meets Maggie’s gaze, hard. “Tell me. What, in all my life, have I done?”

Maggie frowns. “What kind of question is that?”

“I helped around the farm. I went to dances. I rode horses. I dated Jimmy. Everything I did was something you approved of, until I tried to kill myself.”

“If this is some kind of rebellion—“

“It isn't rebellion!” Beth hisses. She's conscious of Daryl sleeping in the other room, her father upstairs. At least, for once, she has her sister's attention. “Daryl ain't some bloodthirsty criminal taking advantage of me. He's a good man. He's my friend.”

“I don't know what came after that bathroom—“

“A lot came after, Maggie,” Beth says, voice thick in her throat. Maggie pauses at her tone, how deep it goes. Beth blinks away sudden tears, angry at them. “A lot. You don't know how much.”

“Then explain it to me.” A thick worried line rests between Maggie's brows. Beth doesn't remember her ever looking at her like this, not since the morning after her attempt; and even then, the intensity was tempered by anger, by hurt. Now she looks at Beth, and she seems genuinely confused—like she wants to understand. Like she wants, for once, to try.

Beth sucks in a deep breath; feels the dried blood on her chest stretch and crack at the movement. His blood, him all over her, crossed around her body like folded wings, like a swarm of fireflies, capable of flight yet stealing her breath, leaving her to flounder. Except he never leaves her like that for long—she thinks of his eyes, their deep blue, the gorges he's seen and crossed, the mountains he's bored through, the rivers and rapids he's swam to survive.

She doesn't know the whole of it; she knows she never will.

But she knows him. She's sure she knows him, in a way Maggie will never understand.

But she has to try.

“It... it started as sex,” she says slowly, tracking the flickers of Maggie's face. “I saw him and I wanted him and I hadn't wanted anything in so long—so, I took him. I let him take me. And he was a dick, at first.” Beth's lips quirk against her will, as she remembers. “He left me with my pants around my ankles, literally—but he did feel bad about it. And when I saw him again I realized I didn't want to let him go. Cause he told me... before we went in that bathroom, he told me things. Things he didn't have to, because he saw I was hurting and he wanted it to stop. And last night...”

Beth trails off. Thinks. Thinks of the weight of him in her hand as she cupped him so gentle; the way his fingers skittered across her skin like he was terrified, struck dumb by the sight and the feel of her. Remembers his shudders as she traced his scars, the look on his face as she came undone with her fingernails digging into one jagged line. And afterwards. Lying, not talking, looking and not looking and looking again like there was a tether tied between their two skins, tugged taut and insistent; the trail of his fingernails up her cheek, his mouth on her breast undemanding, but there, in closeness and comfort, like her fingers tangled in his hair or her leg rubbing across his calf. The way he'd looked at her, through the darkness, like he wanted to look so for always.

“All of tonight, I was… I was so scared that this was it, this was all we'd ever have, was a few short weeks of getting somewhere but never getting there.” Beth rubs her wrist across her face, pulling at the tears on her cheeks. “Whatever we are, we aren't finished yet. But he's proof,” Beth says, meeting her sister's eyes. “He's proof that I can make it. Because he made it too.” She flounders a moment, stumbling. “He's been through so much worse... worse than the worst I could imagine, worse than anyone like him should ever have to go through, but... but he's still here. I'm here and he's here and, he _understands_ me, Maggie. He understands me like no one I've ever met, and I... I feel good. He helps me be good again. Not because he fixes me, or makes me something I'm not—he shows me what's already there, what's been there all along. We're good together.”

Beth's words ring into the silence of the room, broken only by the settling of the house—the wind shuddering outside, her father's heavy steps upstairs. Beth sniffs deeply, wipes her eyes again. She doesn't look at Maggie, can't bear to see what effect her words have had, not when she feels so shaken herself. She didn't know she believed half of that, but now that she's said it, she knows—knows what he's been to her, what he can be. What they will be, when he wakes. She wants to get there.

“So you love him, then?”

Beth looks at her sister—her wide green eyes, her wavy brown hair, her skin tan and smooth. She remembers her face when she broke down the door to find Beth with the mirror in her hand, blood dribbling down her wrist like fire ants in a flood. Remembers her arms around her as they rocked together, Beth's sobbing gasps cradled by Maggie's own, her sister's palm sure and strong over the gash on her wrist, keeping her whole, holding her together.

And she thinks of Daryl. Thinks of his strong blue eyes, his thick dark hair, the way it feels slipping through her fingers; thinks of his hands, bruisingly strong on her hips; thinks of all the bathrooms she's been in, all the mirrors she's grasped, and how she's only really looked at herself since she's known him. Since she's been known to herself again. Since he first took her hand and led her into the dark, unafraid.

She looks at Maggie. At her eyes, her chin, her mouth. Thinks of all that's dark in the world, all that's more. All that makes her afraid.

It is dark out there, and dangerous.

Her grip in his is strong—she’s _made_ it strong—she can face it.

“No,” Beth says. “But I will.”

 

 


	12. Good Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the house asleep, Beth visits Daryl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mary, as always :)

Beth tiptoes down the stairs. The house is dark save the sliver of light shining from the room where Daryl lies. She pauses when she reaches the hardwood—pulls her robe tighter around herself, shifts a lock of wet blonde hair behind her ear as she listens to the settling of the house.

She had been glad, after her declaration, that Maggie had declined to question her further; just wiped her hands a few moments longer, then stood and offered to sit with Daryl while Beth showered. She took the offer gratefully, heading upstairs without a word, finally relaxing with the bathroom door shut behind her. She still didn't cry, even with the shower to muffle the noise—felt like her conversation with Maggie had been release enough, in that sense. Even with the water pounding down on her, however, as close to scalding as she could handle and filling the room with a steam almost too thick to see through, she still had the sense of her skin being too small around her body, a tingling in her chest that wouldn't desist. She stood with her eyes closed beneath the stream and wished to drift apart on its current.

Now she pauses again, halfway across the room, as the bedroom door opens and Maggie's dark figure, silhouetted against the light, steps out. She stops when she sees Beth, watching her face in the dark. After a moment she steps forward to meet her.

“Is he—“

“He's awake,” Maggie answers quietly, stopping in front of her. “First thing he did was ask for you; even before he knew where he was. He still seems a bit disoriented, but he isn't in too much pain.”

Beth nods, going to step around her.

Maggie stops her with a hand around her arm. She pauses when Beth looks at her, like she's trying to find the words.

“I'm sorry, Beth,” she says, finally, not letting her hand drop. “I'm sorry for being a shitty sister. After Mom died, it was easier to wrap myself up in Glenn and to baby you than to deal with real feelings. I should have known something was up with you tonight, and the day I brought you to the bar. I haven't treated you right.”

“It's ok—”

“No,” Maggie interrupts, “It isn't.” She squeezes Beth's arm. “I'll try to trust your judgement on this one. I don't know if I can do it just yet, but I'll try.”

Beth smiles, reaching forward to tug her sister into a hug. “He really is a good person. I promise he is.”

“Save your energy for convincing Daddy,” Maggie says, in something Beth would almost call a joking tone. She pulls back, puts her hands on Beth's shoulders. “I love you, Bethy.”

Beth feels her unshed tears begin to prick behind her eyelids, but she refuses to let them fall; just sniffs them in deep, nodding back at her sister. “I love you too, Mags.”

Maggie presses a kiss to her cheek and squeezes her shoulders once more before stepping around her and heading up the stairs.

Beth steps up to the bedroom door and pauses, fingers tracing the grain of the wood, as she listens for sound from within. She feels a strange trepidation in seeing Daryl that she hasn't felt in a long time; not since the first time she stepped into his apartment, like crossing the threshold is some action she won't be able to take back.

 _We can't take back any of this,_ she thinks, resting her forehead on the door. _We're too far gone for that._ It's with that thought that she steels herself with a breath, and pushes through the doorway.

It's brighter in here than it is in his bedroom, with its single uncovered bulb, but it's still dim; she's reminded absurdly of candlelight as he shifts his head, turning his deep blue gaze on her. She can't help the smile that slips onto her face at the sight of him, no matter how pale he still may be; his own lips quirk in reply, and he spreads a hand across the coverlet beside him in invitation.

She takes it; closing the door all the way and pulling the robe tighter around herself, Beth walks forward to perch on the bed at his side; Daryl's hand instantly goes to her thigh, thumbing aside the fabric to touch her bare skin. A breath passes his lips when they make contact, as if it were only with the feel of her under him that his heart was able to resume beating.

“Hey,” he says, low, gravelly; it shoots a shiver through her spine, as always, and she smiles again, soft.

“Hey,” she whispers. She settles a hand on his bare bicep, sliding her index finger across his skin. She looks at his face, and finds she can't look away. He seems looser, more relaxed than he's ever been except for post-coital; she sees a haziness swimming behind his eyes, like if he sat up he would collapse. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” he says, as cheerfully as he says anything. “Dizzy; arm hurts like a bitch.”

“I can get something—“

“Nah,” he murmurs, eyelids low. “Just want you.”

“Oh.” Beth bites her lip, spanning her hand across his arm, measuring the bulk of him with her thin fingers. His muscle twitches beneath her touch, and she presses down harder, feeling the flesh shift and breathe. “You met Maggie then?”

Daryl snorts. “Yeah, I met her. Woke up fuckin' out of it. First thing she said was asking after my intentions for you. Like a goddamn romance novel.”

“She said you asked for me,” Beth murmurs, tracing a vein.

Daryl's quiet. “Were you here?” he asks, rubbing his own thumb along her thigh. “Before? Did I say stuff?”

Beth smiles at the memory. “Said I was yours.” She giggles a little, despite herself. “I thought my daddy was gonna stab you with his forceps, when he heard that.”

Daryl groans again, pulling his hand from her leg to rub at his eyes. Beth runs her hand across his skin soothingly, scratching lightly with her nails. “Can't believe Merle did this,” he mutters. “Should'a just brought me to the damn hospital.”

“He said you'd be arrested,” Beth says. He puts his hand back down on his stomach, over the sheets; Beth shifts closer to him so her leg presses against his covered hip. “It's better you're here.”

“Your daddy knows, though.” Daryl shifts, grimacing. “Don't think a gunshot wound's the best introduction.”

“It would'a been hard no matter what,” Beth murmurs. “At least like this he has time to cool off before we talk about it.”

“What're you gonna say?” Daryl asks, leveling his gaze on her. It takes her away, the intensity of it, the way the world melts so all that exists is her and him.

“That I care about you. And you care about me. And he can hate it all he wants but it isn't going to matter.”

“You still want me after all this, huh?” he asks.

She slides her hand up and down his arm, feeling the goosebumps that rise. “I want you safe,” she says. Some of the dissociation Beth felt in the shower is seeping back into her, and she closes her eyes, hoping it will pass.

A warm hand settles onto her leg; barely a brush of fingers, but the pressure brings her back; her eyes flutter open and he's looking at her like he's steeled himself for something.

“I can't tell you not to do this,” Beth says.

Daryl's eyebrows go up; he looks surprised. “Thought that'd be the first thing you say.”

Beth shakes her head, biting her lip. “I can’t lie and tell you I’m happy with it.” Beth puts her hand over Daryl's on her leg, moves it to the bed. “But it's who you are. It's your family. I’m not going to try to take that away from you, not before you’re ready.”

Daryl is very, very quiet, staring at her like he's never seen her before. Beth brushes her fingers across his knuckles, feeling the scars there.

“And you'd still be with me?” he asks, smaller than she's ever heard him. “If every day you didn't know if I'd come back; if this happened again—“

“Do you want to be with me?” Beth asks.

“Yeah,” he whispers.

“Then that's my answer.” She levels her gaze at him. “I'm here as long as you want me, Daryl. I decided that a long time ago.”

“Only known me for two weeks.”

“Two weeks can be a lifetime with the right person.” Beth flushes, feeling like she's given too much away; but what is too much, she wonders, when this man looks at her like this; when he puts his hand back on her leg, spreads it across her knee, trails it along the inside of her lower thigh. She shivers, and he smirks a little, but doesn't go higher than is proper; just slides his fingers back down to toy with the light hairs behind her knee. Beth leans more heavily into his hip, letting her eyelids fall to half-mast as she watches him. “I feel like I've lived my whole life with you, already. Is that wrong?”

“Dunno.” Daryl looks at the flesh of her leg. Beth knows, the way the fabric is draped, that it's possible he could see the shadows beyond; but she is strangely unaffected by this knowledge; knows that whatever he decides to do, in this moment, she'll accept it.

When she looks away from his hand and up to his face, she finds that he's frowning. “What's the matter?”

“She said you worried about me. All night you looked like you were about to cry.” His eyes flicker to her face, then away. “That right?”

“Yeah,” Beth says. Her thumb drifts over a scar on his arm; she traces it, feeling the over-smooth skin, the heat of him under her. “Couldn't think about anything else. Kept seeing you, thinking about you...” Beth swallows, looks away. “I didn't see my mama's dead body; she passed away when I was sleeping, and they got the coroner there before I woke up. I got out of bed to go see her and she was... she was just gone. I kept thinkin' about it, what I'd do if you disappeared like that. How much it hurt the last time, and how... how much worse it was, not having an ending.” Beth looks back at him, blushing shyly. He's looking at her like there's nothing else on earth.

“For a long time after that, I... I felt like I'd become my mama, almost. That my whole life would just be me driftin', until one day there wouldn't be enough left to even remember. I didn't think there was anything I could do to change it; thought sometimes it would be better, if I just faded away.” Beth moves her hand from his bicep to his bad hand, resting on his stomach; entwines their fingers against the sheets, feels him squeeze. “But... I don't want that anymore. Cause there's you. There's us. And for the first time in so long, I think... we deserve a happy ending. Not just you—though you do, Daryl,” she says, ignoring his opened mouth; “so much, you deserve to be happy. But the thing is... I think I do too. I don’t know what’s going to happen, or how I’ll feel tomorrow, but… I want my happy ending now. Cause no matter how many bad things happen to us we still gotta try. And I think together we can get there.”

Daryl's quiet for a time, a long time, just watching her. Beth's face burns brighter the longer he looks at her, but so do his eyes—glowing and burning and melting her down to the core of her, the part that refuses to break, the part she didn't know existed, until he entered her life.

“Ain't used to that,” he says finally, gruffly, so quiet she has to watch his lips to confirm what she's heard.

“To what?”

“Someone caring.”

Beth feels her heart clench like it's been closed in a fist, and she can't help leaning down to press a kiss to his lips—light, fleeting, but meaningful; his hand hovers around the back of her head even as she pulls away. He runs his fingers through the drying strands, runs his tongue across his drying lips.

“Well, you better _get_ used to it,” Beth murmurs. He looks like he's about to protest, so she kisses his chest; when he remains silent, she kisses it again, swirling her tongue against his collarbone until he moans, deep in his throat in a rumble through the bone. Beth's hand moves to cup his hip, while the other remains on his arm, squeezing gently as she licks across his chest, stopping at the bandage and then moving down, down to press against the top of his nipple; she glances up at him, his dilated pupils, as she seals her lips around it, sucking softly as he bites his lip and whimpers.

“Beth,” he says, too low to be a gasp, too needful to be a breath. It simply is.

She moans around his nipple as she tongues him, teasing with the tip of her tongue before catching him lightly between her teeth and pulling, the way she likes him to do to her. It seems to do the trick, because then he's arching into her, hand warm and large on her back as she moves her hand from his arm to his other nipple, tweaking the bud and making him squirm.

“What are you doin', Beth?” he asks as she pulls back from his nipple with a pop, continuing to move down, down, tracing the ripples of his abdomen with her tongue. She finds his belly button, dips into it, and he groans, low and long. “Jesus girl, what are you doing?”

“Makin' you feel good,” she says, as if it's as simple a thing as that. She sits up, and pulls the sheet aside.

Daddy must have removed Daryl's jeans when she was out of the room, cause he's clad only in his boxers, length thick and hard against the thin fabric. She runs her hands up and down his thighs, staring at him, at how ready he is for her; she looks up and finds his eyes clenched shut, hands fisted in the sheets.

He almost kicks her in the stomach when she kisses him, wet and open mouthed through his boxers.

“Beth!” he says, sharper, louder, than she anticipated; she sits up slightly, still touching his thighs. She's aware of the way her robe is gaping around her; how her hair falls in tantalizing ribbons past her shoulders, swaying along with her dangling breasts. He's staring at her, wide eyed, muscles bunched in a way that can't be good for his injury.

“Yes, Daryl?”

“You don't gotta do that.”

“I know.” She leans down and kisses him again, a little higher on his shaft; she feels the flesh jump beneath her mouth, and it thrills her, the life pulsing beneath her.

Before she can continue, though, she feels his hand in her hair, grasping, pulling her back. She comes up with a frown.

“Idon'twantit,” he says, words tumbling past each other. His hand comes out of her hair, suddenly, and his stomach muscles bunch as he tries to sit up; he pauses with an an aborted groan, clenching his teeth and rolling his shoulder.

“Daryl, relax,” Beth says. She crawls up his body and kisses his mouth. When she pulls back, she bites her lip. He doesn't just look uncomfortable; he looks _scared._ “What's the matter?” she asks, touching his cheek.

He looks away from her, blinking rapidly. “Don't like it, 's all,” he mutters. He tugs at her arm, jerks his chin. “C'mmon up here and I'll do you—just don't...” he trails away when Beth rests her palm on his length. She doesn't rub, yet; just rests, feels the heat and the hard of him.

“Tell me what's the matter,” she murmurs. When he doesn't answer, she squeezes, just a little, and his whole body trembles. “Tell me.” Beth's hand begins to move, stroking him a few times, moving down to his balls. He shudders again, and she feels his thigh clench against her hip.

He swallows thickly, shakes his head again. He still won't look at her.

Beth pauses and draws back, pulling her heels onto the bed and sitting back on them, resting her hands on her thighs. Daryl slowly opens his eyes, glancing at her. The tent in his boxers stands high and hard between them. His chest rises and falls rapidly. She watches him levelly, waiting, drawing out his speech.

“I ain't...” He shakes his head, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls. “Ain't right for it, Beth. Not that. Don't deserve it.”

Beth puts her hand on his thigh. She bites her lip when the contact makes him jump, but doesn't move it; just strokes her thumb across the hairs on his leg, soothing as can be. “You said you'd do it for me. If I deserve it, you deserve it.”

He shakes his head again. When he speaks again, he sounds like a child. “I ain't good enough.”

Beth's heart clenches, desperately, and she swallows. Slowly, she lifts her hand from his thigh, not missing the look he gives, like he misses the weight; still watching him, she brings both hands to the tie on her robe, undoes it with steady fingers.

He's looking at her like it would be a sin to look away as she draws the robe off her shoulders, revealing her breasts, small, pert, rosy-tipped; she continues until the robe is completely off, pooling across her ankles. His eyes flick from his face, to her breasts, to the thatch of curls between her legs; still watching him, Beth throws a leg across his bare thighs, crawls up his body to hover over him.

He whimpers, again, low in his throat when he feels her nipples brush against his chest; bites his lip when she brings his good hand to the small of her back, pressing down to catch her hips against his cock. She can feel her wetness seeping into the fabric to mingle with his. She rocks her hips, once, twice, just enough to feel him pulse beneath her.

“You, Daryl Dixon,” she murmurs, fingertips on his cheek, “are so much more than good enough.” She kisses his cheek, his chin; then pulls his hand from her back and shifts herself lower, bringing her face level with his cock once more. She watches his face as she takes hold of the band of his boxers; draws them, slowly, down his legs until his cock springs up, thick and needy, pre-cum instantly beading at the tip. His chest rises and falls like the pistons on a freight train. Beth looks at him, at the fright in his eyes; but also the desire, the want, the lick of his gaze as it travels the valley between her breasts, circles her peaks and dips into the shadows of her hips. She licks her own lips, glances at his dick; she nudges it with her nose, watching it bob as the muscles of his legs jerk. She looks back at him, rubs his legs soothingly, pushes the hair out of her face. “Let me do this for you,” she murmurs.

If he says no again, she knows she'll stop; doesn't want to push him, especially when he's injured. But there's something about this moment, alone in a sleeping house, _her_ house, after a night of such fright and a day of such joy, that makes her _need_ it—need to please him, make him feel good, make him feel an ounce of what she feels when he runs his own mouth across her. She’s accepted so much from him, in their time together; it’s time, she thinks, to give.

“Your sister—“

“Is upstairs.” Beth nudges him again, this time with her cheek, feeling the absurd desire to purr like a cat. “So is my dad. No one's coming in, Daryl. It's just me. Me and you. Just us.”

He's still staring at her, frightened; but his grip on the sheets is relaxing. The muscles of his throat work as he swallows.

It's barely perceptible, his first nod; she watches, eyes hot on his face, until he does it again; and then again, stronger, jerking his head up and down until he remembers to stop. Beth smiles, kisses his hip by her thumb; then pulls back a little to look at him. Him.

He isn't overly large, not that she has much to compare him to. He's larger than Jimmy, what little she saw of him in their quick fumble—longer and thicker, and uncircumcised, which she'd felt when he dragged inside her. The drop of pre-cum has beaded and spilled, running down the foreskin towards the shaft; without thinking, without letting herself think about it, Beth leans forward to taste him.

She ignores the thunderstruck look on his face as she rolls her tongue around her mouth, examining his taste—salty and musky, not altogether unpleasant, but not a chocolate river, either. It doesn't matter to her, though; pleasant or not, a delicacy or a drug, it's _him_ —and that's enough to bring her head down again, sealing around the head in a kiss.

She feels the moan that rolls through his body, muffled by the tight press of his lips together as she kisses him again. Gripping the base of him with one hand, the other still holding steady on his hip, she kisses down his shaft, taking time to trace a jutting vein with her tongue, scraping her teeth against a spot that makes him jump. He's shivering, practically humming beneath her, and she doesn't know how he could get much harder.

When she slides him down into her mouth, the way he moans, it's like he's talking to God.

“Beth,” he gasps; she feels his hand fluttering across her scalp, and she pulls her hand off his hip to take his fingers and tangle them in her hair; his knuckles tense as she ducks her head, bobs it down and up as she strokes the base, testing herself in a clumsy rhythm.

She's never done this before, and she knows he knows; can tell, in the hesitant way her tongue presses to the underside of him, the fumbling way her hand tries to follow her lips. It doesn't seem to matter, though, as she feels his response; the uncontrollable sounds he makes, higher-pitched and more desperate than any other time they've had sex; he's practically melting into the mattress as he jerks his hips up, hitting the back of her throat and making her gag. Saliva spills from her jumping lips and she pulls up a bit, clearing her throat.

“Sorry—“ he gasps.

“It's ok,” she says, pulling off of him and pressing another soft kiss to the head. “Just wasn't expecting it.”

“You don't have to—“

“Hush,” she says, sitting up a little so his dick can tap against her breast, paint her nipple with more of his milky white. He shudders at the feeling, the visual she makes as she bites her lip and closes her eyes, lets his tip drag against her as she slides down again to engulf him once more, sucking on the head several times before dropping down again, breathing deeply through her nose. He stays still, stock still, except for the erratic punch of his heart, as she pulls at him with little flutters of her mouth; when she takes him in farther, bringing him once again to the back of her throat, he moans, low and deep. She gags a little (she doesn't miss the shudder that passes through him, when she does), but stays, re-situating her knees and inadvertently wagging her bottom in the air as she anchors herself; takes another deep breath; and begins to suck.

The feeling of him is indescribable, like a popsicle on a warm day but the heat is inside, burning hot and heavy on her tongue as she bobs above him, settling into a steady and stroking rhythm. His hand lands in her hair again, hesitantly, and she pushes against it until his fingers tangle in the strands once more; once they do, he holds firm, gasping in rhythm with her strokes as she speeds up, her own moans joining his in the air as the burn begins deep in her pussy and his hand jerks in her hair as she moves again, straddling his calf and grinding herself down, whimpering around him and making his hips stutter.

The sight he makes takes her breath away, when she looks—head thrown back, Adam’s apple standing proud, the ripple of his chest and abdomen stretching in front of her like the expanse of the sea, and she follows his swell; free hand stroking up to tickle his sides, run through his chest hair, tweak his nipple as he gasps and jerks, and this time she's ready for it; when he hits her throat, she sucks, draws back, and plunges again until they're rocking together, her mouth into him and him into her mouth like seagulls on the swells as he climbs higher and higher and comes, finally, with a deep, drawn out groan that she feels in the roots of her teeth.

His cum pools in her mouth and she swallows as much as she can, grimacing a little as the sticky texture slides down her throat, trickles from the corner of her mouth. His hand is limp in her hair as she draws off him with a plop; flattens his softening length to his stomach to kiss it, up and down, licking into the depression above his balls and making him jump. When his hand tugs at her hair, she goes with it; her eyes rise with her body as she goes to her hands and knees, licking her lips and smiling smugly at the utter awe in his eyes.

“Baby...” he says, shaking his head, chest heaving. “That... that was...”

“Told you you'd like it,” she says. He shivers at how hoarse her voice is. He circles a hand around her bicep and pulls; pausing to pull up his boxers, tucking him in gently, she crawls once more up his body, shrugging into her robe and pulling the sheet up with her until she can snuggle in against him, leg thrown across his hips.

She catches his hand as it starts to sink down towards her heat, looking up at him and shaking her head. “That was for you,” she says softly.

“But you gotta—“

“I don't.” She kisses his jaw, his neck; settles in against him with the top of her head against his chin. “Next time, Daryl. We have time.”

He sighs out a breath, and she feels him relent; his arm circles her shoulders, pulling her in tighter as she adjusts her robe, pulling it apart so she can feel his warm skin cradling her breasts. They settle together like puzzle pieces.

“I told you,” she whispers. “You deserve a happy ending.”

His laugh shakes through them both—not a chuckle, but a full fledged laugh, muffled by his closed lips but enough to bounce her against his chest. She smiles, her teeth pressing to his skin before her lips do, soft and stroking.

“You're something else, Beth,” Daryl says, tugging her in closer.

“It's like you said,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. “I'm yours.”


	13. A Place Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel and Daryl have their talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot apologize enough for how freaking long it has taken me to update this story. It's really inexcusable. 
> 
> I have the next and final chapter written as well, so that should go up either later today or tomorrow.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for bearing with me :)

Beth comes awake to the sensation of someone fumbling with her robe, drawing it closed beneath her breasts; it's only moments later that she's aware of a door opening somewhere behind her; there is a pause, before it closes, and slow steps draw closer.

Daryl is stiff as a board beneath her, and something in the press of his hand to her back tells her to keep her eyes closed, her breaths even. It isn't hard, the lull of his heart echoing against her cheek; she can't help the way her hands clench a little, in the sheet, when she hears her father speak.

“Somehow I suspected she'd be down here.”

There's a long pause before Daryl speaks; she counts his breaths, long and slow and deep, as she waits. “No way to stop her when she wants something.”

“Hmm.”

“You want me to wake her?”

“No. Let her sleep.”

Beth hears the draw of a chair, her father's soft grunt as he drops into it. Daryl's hand is drawing loose and tight around her shoulder in unconscious spasms, and she can hear the index finger of his other hand tapping nervously on the coverlet. She opens her eyes to slits to look across his chest to the open window, the daylight streaming in. She closes her eyes again, breathing deep.

“Beth's mother almost died giving birth to her,” Hershel says softly; Beth feels Daryl stiffen in surprise at the chosen topic. “She had difficulty with Shawn, too, with her previous husband, before he died. The doctors told her she wouldn't be able to bear another baby safely. I told her that I was perfectly content with the number we had; Shawn and Maggie were a joy, more than we expected to be blessed with. But she decided she wanted a child with me, and that's what happened.” Hershel sits quietly for a few moments, a silence Daryl easily matches, save the in and out of his breath.

“Beth was a miracle,” Hershel finally says; Beth hears the chair creak as he leans forward. “She and Annette both survived, and the two grew more miraculous every day. Those were the best days of my life.” He goes quiet again, and Daryl shifts beneath her. “I suspect Beth's told you that her mother passed.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says.

“It was hard on Bethy.”

“I know.” Daryl's arm tightens around her; Beth's fingers flex against his stomach, trying to soothe.

“What else do you know, Daryl Dixon?”

Daryl freezes at the sudden coldness in Hershel's voice; Beth feels a swallow work its way down his throat.

“Know she's the best thing's ever happened to me.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“Know I don't deserve her.”

“That is true.”

“Know that don't matter.”

Silence. A beat.

“Tell me why.”

“Cause she thinks I do.”

Beth turns her face slightly, presses her smile into Daryl's skin. Her pride flows through her like a gentle wind. She hopes he can feel it.

She doesn't know what her father's thinking, though; wishes she could let up this ruse and look at him, stand by Daryl's side to face him down. But she knows they need this, both of them. So she'll curl her fingers against Daryl's chest, match her breath to his, and give him what he needs to be strong beside her.

His hand spans hard and strong across her back. She knows he understands.

“My father was a lot like yours.”

Daryl stiffens, his heart jumping beneath her ear. His fingers curl a little, giving her the press of a fingernail.

“I don't know if you knew that.”

“I didn't,” Daryl says, wary. “What's my old man gotta do with anything?”

“I think you know,” Hershel says quietly.

“He was a mean old drunk with a small dick,” Daryl says. He's shaking a little. “Ain't got nothing to do with this.”

“I know belting scars when I see them, son,” Hershel says. “Have a few of them myself.”

“So?”

“So. Have you hit a woman, Daryl?”

Beth has to dig her fingernails into Daryl's chest to keep him from leaping up; knows if she weren't there, he'd be in Hershel's face by now. As it is, he clutches her to him; takes a few ragged breaths, grinds his teeth.

“No.”

“Ever wanted to?”

“ _No_ ,” Daryl says fiercely. “You seen what he done to me, then you know what he did to my mama. I ain't like that.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Cause...” Daryl swallows, a ripple that runs deep down through his chest. “Cause I wanna treat your daughter right. 'S all I want. I weren't worth shit till I met her. Still ain't. But I could be.” Beth feels Daryl shifting; knows he's looking down at her, her fluttering lashes. “Wanna treat her right,” he says.

Hershel is quiet for a long time. Daryl doesn't move; continues looking down at her, his hand moving slowly up and down her back. She feels warmth flow through the very core of her, and can't help snuggling in closer; bathing in his scent, feeling the wall of his muscles bend and breathe around her. She senses that her daddy is looking at her too, but somehow, she doesn't mind. She feels as safe and secure as she does alone with Daryl in his apartment.

“I assume you two have known each other?”

Daryl's hand stills on her back. Beth feels the perverse urge to start laughing.

“Uh. Yeah.”

“More than once?”

“...Mmh.”

“You know I could shoot you for that alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Never mind the lies. Never mind putting her life in danger.”

“She ain't in danger,” Daryl says.

“Those men you run with—“

“Ran,” Daryl says. Beth barely keeps herself from looking up at him. “This is it. I ain't doing that no more.” He swallows, speaks around a lump in his throat. “Told you. Wanna treat her right.”

Hershel is quiet again, then sighs. Beth hears the chair creak as he leans forward. “You aren't making this easy, son,” he says wryly.

Daryl snorts. “Hope I never do.”

“I believe you.” Hershel sighs again. “I don't want to, but I believe you.” The floor groans, and Beth realizes he must be standing. “I'm not happy with this,” he says. “I won't be happy with this for a long time. But you do as you say... and I might not put a shotgun shell right through that other shoulder. Sound fair?”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. He sounds almost amused.

“Good.” Hershel makes a sound like he's rubbing his hands together. “I'll come back to check the wound in an hour. You send her out as soon as she wakes up. As _soon_ , you hear. I won't have any foolishness in my house.”

Beth licks around the roof of her mouth, where she imagines she can still taste Daryl's spunk. From the jumping of his abdomen, she suspects he's right along with her trying not to laugh.

“I'll do that.”

“Good.” Beth hears her father take a step as he turns to go, but then he pauses. She imagines he's looking back over his shoulder at them. “You are a surprise, Mr. Dixon,” he says. “You are quite a surprise.”

Beth feels Daryl hold his breath until the door clicks closed; then he lets it out in one long rush, ending with a bark of a laugh. Beth lets her eyes slide open, meeting his grin.

“Well look who survived,” Beth says.

“Barely,” Daryl says. He lets his head fall back against the pillow. Beth crawls up so she can rest her head beside his, snuggling closer as he pulls the blanket tighter around them. “You're in a _robe_ , for chrissake. Jesus.”

Beth giggles, kissing his cheek. “Clearly he doesn't think you have any sex appeal whatsoever.”

Daryl turns his head, smirking at her. “Good thing he didn't smell your breath.”

Beth snaps her lips closed, and Daryl laughs, leaning forward to press his mouth to hers, working her lips open easily to slip inside, taste the remnants of himself. Daryl tastes as disgusting as she must, but she knows—nothing short of her father bursting in will make her stop kissing him.

And even then. Who knows.

It isn't until Daryl's hand begins to wander that she pulls back, leaning her forehead on his. “Told Daddy you'd send me right out, didn't you?” she asks through her labored breaths.

“Yeah,” he sighs, kissing her nose. “Guess I did.”

Beth slowly begins to extricate herself from his side, smiling apologetically when her movements aggravate his shoulder. By the time she's standing, her robe has slipped open again; she rolls her eyes at Daryl's smirk as she ties it more securely.

“Perv,” she says.

“Tease.”

His voice is so deep, such a low rumble, that Beth can't help but shiver; but she finds the strength to keep herself on her feet, smiling, soft.

“I'll check in on you later, if Daddy lets me, ok?”

“A'right,” Daryl says. He looks her up and down again, eyes dark. “I'm getting my hands on you this time, though. Ain't fair for you to have all the fun.”

Beth smirks even as she colors, popping her hip. “Think you had a pretty good time too, mister.”

“Still,” he rumbles, reaching out to thumb the fabric of her robe. “Don't like it, going too long without touching you. Don't feel right.”

Beth's smile softens, her hand sliding over his to press it against his leg. His eyes are deep, as they look at her—blue and piercing and bottomless, inviting her in, holding her there.

Keeping her safe.

Beth leans forward to kiss his forehead—a long, lingering brush that he sighs through, breath tickling her clavicle. She puts her hand on his cheek, strokes the well of his eye with her thumb. Hopes her own tell him all his are telling hers.

“I'll be back when I can,” she murmurs. Daryl nods. He turns his head to press a kiss to her palm.

She doesn't look back to check, but she would bet her life his eyes don't leave her for a moment until the door swings shut behind her.

* * *

Beth emerges from the bedroom prepared for her own grilling from her father, but to her surprise it doesn't come.

She finds him in the kitchen. He gives her a long pointed look that lights Beth's cheeks on fire, but she doesn't let herself budge. Just raises her chin and squares her feet and dares him to comment on her sleep-tossed hair and kissed lips. Dares him to condemn her, for spending a night in bed with her biker boyfriend. Condemn her for all of it, as if it would move her one inch.

He must sense her resolve, for he doesn't even try. Just gives a long, put-upon sigh; walks over to kiss her forehead and tell her that the cows need milking.

He keeps her busy all day, which she suspects is his way of making a point. Milking the cows, gathering eggs, pitching out the hayloft until her arms strain and her eyes sting from the sweat dripping from her brows.

She looks towards the house, occasionally, to that front window; wonders, absurdly, whether Daryl might be watching her. She knows the pain is likely as anything to keep him on his back, not to mention whatever painkillers Maggie'd been able to force into him, at Beth's whispered request. Beth asks after him every time she and Maggie pass each other throughout the day, until her sister gets to rolling her eyes whenever she sees Beth approaching—but it's good-natured. Everything feels good-natured to Beth, now; even her father's considering looks, the crick in her spine she got from sleeping curled up like she did, can't mitigate the fact that Daryl is in her house, in her place. That if he could muster the energy, he would walk to the window; look out and see her on the land she has wandered for all of her short life. If he entered the living room, he would see where she took her first steps; the kitchen, where she and Maggie make cupcakes every year for their daddy's birthday.

Her parent's bedroom, where her mama died. The upstairs bathroom, where Beth almost did.

So many stories told by the bones of this house, the floors and walls that hold their secrets, so many that they can't be contained by a single line on her wrist; can't be summed up in a dribble of blood or her tear-stained pillows. Daryl took her into his family, into his apartment, into his bed; all these as intimate a thing as when he himself sinks inside her.

With the smell of her life swirling in his lungs, she feels she's at last entered him.

Daddy insists on Daryl joining them for dinner, if he's able, and like Beth expects, he takes it as a challenge. Maggie and their dad help him out as Beth sets the table. She's pleased to see he can walk mostly on his own, with only a few winces as his steps jostle his shoulder. Still, he sinks down gratefully, tips of his ears turning red as Hershel claps him on his good shoulder. Beth can't stop looking at him, where he sits across from her—Hershel insisted they not sit next to each other, and Beth blushed when she considered the why of that request. Daryl’s face is a good color again. His hair is greasy, and his skin could do with a wash, but he's beautiful. He's so beautiful Beth feels herself overflowing with it, sitting with her family to their simple dinner. Seeing Daryl in the same room as them; seeing him nod at Hershel's queries and smirk when Maggie complains about Glenn; seeing him try not to look at her like she's looking at him, averting his eyes and ducking his chin but always turned towards her, always aware, his energy reaching towards hers like a pair of arms—this is what she was missing. In all their times together, all the beauty he gave her, the goodness and strength, this was still missing—him, and her, and all that's hers, sitting to table and filled with grace.

Maggie walks him to the bedroom after dinner while Beth and Hershel clear, and then before she knows it it's just them, alone again in the kitchen, side by side like she and Maggie had been just the night before, washing dishes. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye as he works silent and steady, peering occasionally at the darkened world outside.

“Have you heard anything from his brother?”

Beth starts a little when he speaks, thinking what had passed between them that morning would have fulfilled whatever understanding they needed to reach—but of course, it was not enough. Her daddy is nothing if not thorough. He'll want to talk this through.

“No,” Beth says, taking the plate from him and drying it slowly. “Maggie told me he's gotten a few texts from the rest of them, asking where he is, but nothing from Merle.” Beth looks at her father from the corner of her eyes. “You think you could call Mr. Grimes, maybe? Ask what's going on?”

Hershel chuckles. “Bethy, just because I haven't shot the man yet doesn't mean I'm ready to start calling in favors.” He looks at her, and tilts his head. “Give it another day. I'm not as ready to have two Dixons under this roof as you are.”

His words worry Beth for a moment, but he's still smiling, features loose. He looks like he enjoyed dinner; enjoyed Daryl's company, she can hope, even though Daryl did little more than mumble replies and listen to the rest of them. She expected nothing different, although her daddy might have—but the mood had remained genial, relaxed, friendly. Hershel's demeanor tells her nothing has happened yet to change that.

“I suppose I shouldn't call you that anymore,” he says, out of the blue.

Beth frowns. “Call me what?”

“Bethy.” He puts the plate he's working on in the rack, and turns more towards her. “You're more than grown up at this point. You've proven that.”

“I don't mind.” Hershel raises his eyebrows, and Beth giggles. “Well, not usually.”

“Don't lie to your father,” he says quietly.

Beth flushes, looking down. She curls her fingers around the lip of the sink, soap suds standing out against her knuckles. As she watches, they pop one by one, releasing themselves to the air.

“I am sorry, Daddy,” she says. “For lying,” she clarifies. “Not for doing it.”

“Doing what?” he asks.

“Being with him.”

“I assume you mean that in more than the Biblical sense,” Hershel says dryly.

Beth's flush deepens, but she doesn't look away. “I do.” She looks at her fingers again, flexing them. “Daryl said you spoke to him—“

“I know you were awake,” Hershel says. “You've never been a heavy sleeper.”

Beth winces. “I guess I just can't stop lying, huh?”

“You've disappointed me, Beth.”

Beth bites her lip, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes—but she refuses to look away. She earned this. She'll take it.

“You lied to me and your sister. You endangered your welfare, both mentally and physically. You acted recklessly. You associated with known criminals. Not to mention what you've done against God.”

“Daddy...”

“But,” he says, holding up a hand. “I understand why. He is important to you.” Hershel ducks his chin, looking at her seriously. “You've been different since you met him. I don't think I've seen you smile so much since your mother got sick.” He lays a hand on her shoulder, smiling softly as a tear tracks down her cheek. “I can wish you weren't with him all I want. I can wish he were younger, or God-fearing, or law-abiding. But I can't wish away your happiness.” He cups Beth's wet cheek in his hand. “I'm sorry I was the kind of father you felt you had to keep this from.”

“It's ok,” Beth whispers. She leans into her father's hand, sniffing loudly. “I knew from the beginning how dumb it was, but it was also... it was right. It felt right, where everything had felt wrong for so long. I hated lying to you, and disappointing you, and... but I had to do it, Daddy. I had to do it for me.”

“And you want to continue?”

“Yes,” Beth says. She doesn't even hesitate. “I told Maggie. I'm not giving him up.”

Hershel searches her face, then pulls her into a tight hug. Beth presses her face against his chest, sighing into the familiar comfort of her father's arms.

“Your mother said the same thing to me, when I was drinking,” he murmurs. “I told her she should go be with her parents, that I couldn't take care of her. But she wouldn't go. Said she would die a thousand times over before she gave up on me.” He sighs, holding her tighter. “You are more like your mother than you know.”

“I'm like you too, Daddy.” Beth pulls away, wiping at her face. “I am sorry. For all of it.”

“I know you are. I'm sorry too.” Hershel squeezes her shoulder, then looks at the clock with a sigh. “It's getting late; it's time we both went to bed.” He fixes her with a look, arching an eyebrow. “Our own beds, yes?”

Beth flushes, but can't help smiling. The whole thing—her, her father, Daryl, the lies and tensions between them—it all feels so silly now. So inconsequential.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Alright.” He steps forward to kiss her forehead, squeezing her shoulder again. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

Beth watches her father exit the kitchen. Listens to him ascend the stairs. Hears his door click shut above.

She leans against the sink, head tilted back, eyes closed. She imagines, for a moment, there is no roof above her head; that her hands rest not on a counter, but on stone, and the ceiling is blank save for the stars spread across it. She imagines a breeze caressing her cheeks. Imagines a motorcycle rumbling in the distance. Imagines Daryl's voice, her father's voice, Maggie's. Her mother's. Imagines if their lives could start again. Could sift away the years and the hurt and the scars. Could leave them children again.

But she thinks: Without the scars, without the tears—there would be kisses, but nothing to kiss away. No rough edges to smooth with delicate fingers, no grooves or notches to fill with held hands and smiling lips pressed to smiling lips. No reason for them to be the missing pieces of each other, for they would be whole on their own.

Or maybe they wouldn't, Beth thinks. Or maybe that doesn't matter.

Maybe they would be together. Maybe not.

But even with the past splitting them in two—these are only cracks, not uncrossable schisms. And the two of them are each other's bridges, wings, mile-tall stilts. They allow each other to ascend.

There is no way to fill the void beneath; but there is no need to, either, Beth thinks. No need.

They need each other to be better. Not to be whole.

That, even while shattered—that, they were already.


	14. The Good I Make You Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every beginning is an end, and the end its own beginning.

Beth knows that if she goes to Daryl to say goodnight, she will never be able to leave; or she would be able to, but only far enough through the night that her promise to her daddy would be broken anyway.

She goes upstairs instead. Knocks on Maggie's door to say goodnight, to make sure she left Daryl comfortable, while her older sister rolls her eyes. Goes to the bathroom, strips off her clothes, and washes the day from her skin until she feels raw and new.

When she is finished, she stands before the steamy mirror, wiping it off with a circling palm. She wears her nightclothes and a towel, twisted on top of her head. Cold air rushes in from the open bathroom door, puckering her nipples painfully beneath the thin camisole, raising goosebumps on her bare legs. She looks at the mirror and she looks at herself and she sees no blood. Not anywhere. She can scent it, perhaps, with her nose to the breeze; with the wind from the right direction. But for now, it has vanished from sight. She is pure and clean without it.

The sound of her bedroom door opening doesn't startle her like it should; she was half expecting this anyway, when she didn't go in to say goodnight. After two nights in her house, she doesn't think his fear of her father and sister has abated; but after a day of only seeing her in glances, his want for her is so much stronger than his fright.

She hears the door close, and smiles; smiles so he will see it, when he comes into view in the steamy mirror, hazy and distorted beneath the condensation. He grows clearer as he comes closer; and by the time she feels him solid behind her his face appears beside hers plain as day.

He reaches an arm around her to embrace her stomach; pulls her as far back as he can without disturbing his bad arm in its sling. He doesn't hesitate before burying his face in her neck, inhaling deeply. Kisses the juncture of her neck and shoulder, rubs her jaw with a scruffy cheek.

“Smell good,” he rumbles, speaking directly into her skin, as if it is from there that she hears.

Beth shivers even as she smiles, pressing both hands over his one on her waist. “I sure hope so. Wouldn't want to waste all that water and smell _bad_ , huh?”

“You never smell bad,” Daryl says.

“Well,” says Beth, “you smell gross.”

Daryl pinches her side and she pitches forward, giggling. He keeps his hold on her, jerking her back, directly into the cradle of his hips. She feels his hardness, as she knew she would, clearly outlined through Shawn's old sweatpants and her own thin shorts. She shivers again; squeezes his hand and rubs backwards more deliberately, rolling her ass until he groans and leans forward, his breath gusting across her bared neck.

“Dangerous game, girl,” he murmurs.

“That's the fun part.”

He huffs a laugh against her ear, and pulls her up so he can nuzzle her neck again. Beth watches as they grow clearer and clearer in the mirror; the fog lifting from the shiny surface, barely three months old.

None of the old mirror remains—there was no point in repairing it once shattered, and she wouldn't have wanted them to try—but she imagines its spirit is still there. Thinks of all the things it has seen: her mascara running in rivulets after her mother's diagnosis, her blood doing the same after her death. So much of it painful, so much of it bad.

It is suddenly important to Beth, vital, that it see something good.

“I want you to fuck me here,” Beth says.

Daryl freezes behind her, pulling up his head so he can meet her eyes in the mirror.

“Ain't that a little risky?”

“Yeah,” Beth says. “But so is this. And I don't care. I want you to.”

“Dunno how good it'll be, with one arm. It'd be easier on the bed—“

“No,” Beth says; not unkindly, but with firmness. Authority. With strength. “Here. On the sink.” She smirks, bumping her butt back against him. “It's fairly new. Pretty good chance we won't break it.”

Daryl laughs, a short, huffing breath. He's smiling, she sees, and she's brought back to that bathroom, so long ago between them and so close to them in the world.

She remembers what she told him the night before, in the bedroom—how two weeks can be a lifetime, with the right person. And she was right. God, she was right.

“Fuck me, Daryl,” Beth whispers. She leans back, rubbing her temple against the ledge of his jaw, feeling his breaths gust over her ear. “Touch me. Make love to me. Please.”

If her word choice startles him, he doesn't show it, not beyond a twitch of his fingers against her stomach. It surely doesn't stop him from pressing a kiss to her temple, her jaw; trailing down to her neck before turning her gently, with nothing but the pressure of his fingertips.

She stands in front of him, looking up, his hand resting lightly on the knob of her pelvis, jutting out above her low-hanging shorts. She watches his face shift as he takes her in, lingering on her legs, her toes, her nipples painfully hard and impossible to miss beneath the thin fabric. As if in answer to her unspoken plea, he raises his hand to cup her, run his thumb back and forth across her nipple until the tightening of her flesh feels almost like a twisting. She sighs, tilting her head back, leaving her hands limp at her sides as he explores her.

“God, I wish I had two hands right now,” he says.

Beth giggles, leaning into him until he takes the hint and presses his thumb deeper, turning her giggle into a groan. “You're gonna say that through this whole thing, huh?”

He snorts, tickling the underside of her breast with feather-light touches before squeezing again, harder, smiling when he sees her knees begin to shake, her fingers twitch for him.

“Probably,” he says. “Never said I weren't a complainer.”

“You can do more with one hand than most men could do with ten.” Beth isn't entirely sure of what's coming from her mouth; is lost in the slow build of pleasure between her legs, the feeling of her slick seeping into panties already damp from being pulled onto her still shower-wet body.

He seems to appreciate her words, for he chuckles again and steps into her, walking her back until she bumps the sink. He slides his hand from her breast to her ass, massaging it sweetly through the fabric, tracing the outline of her panties where they cut across the middle of her cheeks. She isn't wearing her best underwear—didn't want to jinx the possibility of him visiting tonight by being too eager—but they aren't her worst either; even so, it wouldn't bother her to be rid of them.

It wouldn't bother her at all.

Beth gives Daryl a few more moments of toying with her ass, dragging over her cheeks, digging gently into the crack, teasing the spot where her perineum vanishes into her pussy and makes her breath come short.

Then, movements slow and deliberate, she pushes him away.

He looks worried for a moment, but that nervousness quickly turns to lust as she grabs the towel on her head, peels it away until her hair falls, damp and tangled around her.

She tosses the towel towards the tub, and wonders for a moment whether she should make a show of this. Whether she should pull up her shirt inch by inch, glaring at him when he reaches forward to touch. Roll her hips, show him her ass as she lowers her shorts to the ground. Entice him. Ratchet him up. Make him fall to his knees and beg for her.

She could do it. She knows she could.

But she won't. Too much has been lost—in this room, between them. She won't withhold anything from him, not when it's so free to give.

So he watches, eyes glazed, as she reaches down and shimmies quickly out of her panties and shorts, pulls her camisole in one swift move over her head.

She thinks briefly about how, only several days ago, she would have felt mortified to stand naked before this man in such a well-lit space; but now she simply takes it as fact, his eyes roaming across her breasts, the thatch of hair between her legs. Knows that he sees the little scars on her skin, her imperfections, and wants them the way he wants all of her.

She hopes he knows she feels the same for him. She hopes.

With her help he's able to get his sweatpants and boxers off, kicking them away impatiently when they catch on his ankle. They can't get his shirt off without navigating around the sling, which is a shame; but the shirt is old enough and thin enough that when he presses up against her, the layer between them hardly matters at all.

“Daryl,” Beth whispers as he gathers her into him, sandwiching her between the heat of his body and the cold of the sink and sucking a hickey into her neck. She knows it will bruise, knows it will be visible to anyone who throws her even a glance—but in the moment, she doesn't care. Couldn't care, with his hand roaming across her shoulder, her waist, skating around to stroke her ass and tease the shadows between her cheeks. The sling is cold and rough against her chest as she throws her arms around him, pulling him even closer as he kisses from her neck to her jaw to her mouth, enveloping her in his taste, in his scent, in his touch. Beth sighs into his kiss, and he sighs right back, and as his tongue dips inside to taste the back of her teeth Beth slides a hand down his chest to curl around his cock, hot and pulsing. And hers.

_Hers._

“God, Beth,” Daryl groans, and she grips him like she's leading him somewhere, like with a tug and a click she could walk him right over the edge of a cliff. And the way he's looking at her, she thinks she might be able to; eyes blown black and fluttering, thin lips already kissed swollen, cheeks flushed even through his tan. She bites her lip and presses her forehead to his, holding his eyes unblinking as she takes his cock and strokes.

Daryl groans again, burying his face in her neck while his hand runs everywhere, touching her skin like he could suck her up through his palm, before hooking under her thigh and urging her onto the sink. He doesn't have to bend so much and she doesn't have to reach and it lets her look over his shoulder and remember Maggie standing there—remembers the stricken look on her face, remembers the shock and the horror and the anger already bubbling beneath, and Beth remembers how she herself felt—the pain in her wrist still little more than a dull, aching sludge, nothing like the burn that would come later; the pounding in her head and chest far louder, far more acute, the world spinning as Maggie clung to her ankle and begged her to come down.

The world is spinning now—faster and faster as Daryl's hand slides down her body and cups her spread-out cunt, strokes her only once before working two fingers inside her, quickly matching the rhythm she's set on his own body—and he's spinning with her. They've left the ground and reached the clouds but there is nothing sharp within reach—only flesh. Only air.

With a sudden fierceness Beth grabs Daryl by his hair and yanks his head up, gripping in a way that must be painful. He immediately goes for her lips, but she tugs him back, shoving her face into his until she can feel his breath on her bared teeth, hot panting bursts from his mouth and nose. His fingers pump inside of her and her hand squeezes his dick and Beth feels _free._

“You're standing where I was when I made this,” Beth whispers, staring at his frozen face as she arches her wrist, drags her scar with deliberate roughness against his cock. “One day... I wanna fuck you where you got yours. I wanna fuck you so hard your daddy feels in his _grave_ how good I make you feel. I wanna fuck you until he dies all over again.”

“Beth,” he says; barely a gasp, barely a whisper. “Beth, girl—you killed him a long-ass time ago.”

And then he's following her loosened hand and dropping forward to kiss her, mouth enveloping hers, hot like smoke from his cigarettes as he grinds his thumb against her clit, thrusts getting rougher as the scars and the hurt and the pain fall away like rain.

Just before she reaches her peak, he pulls his fingers out of her with a loud pop. Before she can even whine in protest he's shoving her thighs wide with his hand and his hip, and Beth feels her cunt _throb_ as he curls his hand over hers on his dick.

“Wait, Beth,” he gasps, “Condom.”

Beth shakes her head fiercely, wrapping her legs around his hips. “It doesn't matter.”

“Beth—“

“Maggie has morning-after, I just... God, _please,_ Daryl—“

She sees in his eyes the moment he falls with her, and she feels the wet of her own pussy on her wrist moments before they together guide his cock inside her.

Beth arches her back and moans into the stretch, the new position, the slight burn as her body adjusts to him, his thick dick inside of her. They've done this before but like each time it feels like new, and when she opens her eyes she sees the same feeling, the same wonderment, reflected in his.

“Fuck me,” she whispers.

“Yeah...”

His hand is strong on her hip, holding her solid on her precarious perch, balanced on her sit-bones on the edge of the sink. The porcelain digs painfully into her ass, but she's hardly aware of it—feels only the heat of him in front of her, his dick stretching her wide, his eyes dark and heavy and eating her up as surely as his mouth does, sealing over hers as he begins to rock.

They move like one being—Beth's ankles locked around the dip of his spine leading him into her as he presses forward, keeps him close even as he pulls back. He never goes far—feels determined to keep as much of himself inside of her as possible, their torsos pressed together, their breaths shared between kissing and gaping mouths. Beth clings to him, one arm under his and the other curled around his neck, muscles seizing each time he rocks his pubic bone into her clit. It isn't enough to get her off, not nearly enough, but she doesn't care—couldn't care, with their sweat making his shirt nearly translucent between them, her nipples hard and pointed and aching as they grind against him, the heat of him all around and inside and above and below, and for a moment she is so overwhelmed she forgets how to breathe.

 _I am going to love him,_ she thinks.

She wonders if she already does.

“Harder,” she groans. “Harder, God, fuck me harder—“

And as if he had been waiting for the order, he does—breathing her name and withdrawing his hips and _slamming_ upwards, so hard that she lets out a small scream.

“Shit, baby, you gotta be quiet,” he gasps, but doesn't hesitate to do it again, using the power of his body to lift her off the sink until they practically don't need it and she's bouncing on his cock, thighs burning as she heaves them together and arms straining as she clings and entire body singing at the slapping sound of flesh on flesh.

“Beth—shit, you feel so good, _girl_ –“

Beth doesn't know if he's entirely conscious of what he's saying as he drags his mouth across her skin, too sloppy and uncoordinated to be called kisses but enough to make her burn all the same, the heat of him and his saliva coating her, drowning her like she's drowning the cock squelching in and out of her.

“Daryl—“

“Touch yourself,” he whispers, mouth fumbling to grab at her earlobe, “Touch yourself, girl, christ, your hand—“

Beth's cunt spasms so hard she's surprised she doesn't come from his words alone, but she's glad she doesn't; she gets to feel the bite of his teeth as he grins against her skin when he feels her fingers slide between them, gets to enjoy the full body spike of pleasure as he plows inside her at the moment her hand slides between her legs.

She moans, loud and throaty and not even trying to be quiet, not letting herself care, just reveling in the thick dick inside her and the pleasure of her own fingers and the man, the extraordinary, breathtaking man taking her into his body as surely as she's taking him into hers.

“Beth—“

“I'm so close, I'm, shit, Daryl, _fuck_ —“

The orgasm spikes through her like lightning, and it's only his hand surging forward to grasp her skull that keeps her from cracking her head on the mirror. As she continues to spasm he draws her back in, shoving her face into his sweaty neck as he jerks his hips once, twice, and spills inside her with a groan that echoes off the bathroom walls.

Beth can feel the tremors of Daryl's thighs as he sets her back onto the sink, collapsing forward until she's forced to slump backwards and rest her shoulders on the mirror, his face sliding into the trough of her breasts. Their breathing is heavy and loud in the small room, and Beth has to clench her muscles to keep the slick of their sweat from sliding her off the sink.

 _Not the only slick,_ she thinks.

Daryl gasps like he's in pain as he draws his softening cock from her body; he stares down between them, and she follows his rapt gaze to watch the milky white fluid sliding out of her, still leaking from the head of his cock. It gives her another spike of lust, to see the combination of the two of them pooling on the sink; but suddenly she's shaking and she doesn't know if she could survive another climax like that one.

“Christ,” Daryl whispers, still staring down between them.

His head comes up, and he sees the look on her face.

With a shaking hand he draws her forward; slips her from the sink and brings her to the floor with him, leans the two of them against the tub. She curls into him, balanced on his thighs with her head on his shoulder, fluids still leaking from her body, trembling fingers gripping his shirt as he strokes her back.

“Beth?”

“Yeah?” she whispers back.

“You ok?”

Beth's breath quavers as she exhales. Daryl tightens his arm around her, holding her close, feeling her quake. His breath is still hot on her ear, but the breeze cool on her overheated neck; she shivers, and he reaches over them towards the towel rack, pulling one down and wrapping it around her the best he can.

“Beth?”

She looks at him. His sweat-soaked temples. His glistening eyes.

His face. Rough, honest, open.

_Hers._

“We're gonna make it,” she whispers. “We're gonna make it.”

There's someone banging on the bedroom door, but they both hear it as if from underwater. Far away. Of no importance. What is important is his arm around her. Their skin stuck together, heady and sweet. His lips pressing feather-light touches to her fluttering pulse—bringing it down, setting it right.

“Your dad's right, you know,” he murmurs.

“About what?”

His smile, when she sees it, damn near breaks her heart.

“You are a miracle, Beth. A damn miracle.”

The pounding stops. Steps recede down the hall. They go away.

He stays.

He's staying with her for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL GOSH THIS IS IT ISN'T IT.
> 
> I want to thank everyone for coming on this journey with me; _especially_ those of you who have been here since the beginning. I know it's been a long, long wait to get to this ending; but I hope for some of you at least it was worth it.
> 
> The one person I really can't thank enough is Mary. It is a simple face that I could not have written this without her. I would have given up before I even began, and even if I didn't - I can guarantee the quality of this work would be far, far lower. Find her on Tumblr as milkshakemicrowave, and on here as openhearts. Read her work. It's extraordinary.
> 
> And because I know some of you are going to ask: No, I do not plan to add to this universe. I feel like I've moved past it; and even though there is obviously a lot of story left to tell, I will not be the one doing it. If you feel inspired to write your own piece based on this, please let me know; I would love to read it :)
> 
> Thanks again to everyone. This has been an incredible experience, and I hope to see you on my other fics!
> 
> xoxoxo Schwoozie


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